**> 


HARVEY- 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 


GIFT  OF 

JOHN  HOMER  WOOLSEY 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Wes'  Bigelow 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


HARVEY  J.  O'HIGGINS 


FOUNDED  ON  THE  PLAY  BY  DAVID  BELASCO 
PAULINE  PHELPS,  AND  MARION  SHORT 


BY  MARTIN  JUSTICE 


NEW  YORK 
E  CENTURY  CO 

1908 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
THK  CROWELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Published  September,  1908 


TO  DAVID  WARFIELD 

"  You  c'd  tell  he 's  a  genius— he  's  so  modest." 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


7 

14. 
18 


Wes'  Bigelow       ........    Frontispiece 

That  mute  kindliness  of  expression       ... 

It  was  a  room  that  was  as  human  as  an  old  face 

"Your  father  would  n't  'a'  done  it"        ... 

"The  world  's  full  o'  people  doin'  things  their 

fathers  would  n't  'a'  done  "       ......     21 

"TheytoPme,     .     .     .     they  was  twenty-four 

strangers  in  town  "       .........     25 

"Our  meetin's  ust  to  sound  like  a  sessions  in  a 

kennels!"      ............     29 

"  If  God  A'mighty  don't  make  a  charitable  man, 
they  's  no  use  nobody  else  undertakin'  the 
contrac'"  .............  36 

"He  did  n't  have  time  to  eat—  that  boy"  .. 

"'I  had  n't  any  bad  habits,'  he  says"  ... 
She  burst  into  tears  and  fled  from  the  room 
He  flung  out  of  the  room  himself  ... 

"There  ain't  nothin'  like  'em  at  that  age"       . 

"She  'dmitted  she  'd  been  study  in'  the  cook 
book 

"I  kind  o'  held  the  letters  behind  me" 


—  "  said  she  'd  sooner  die  "     ........     69 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

75 


She  was  more  than  girlishly  pretty 

The  pathos  of  that  sentence  choked  poor  Bigelow 

to  tears 80 

"And  he  said  he  did  n't  know  whether  a  girl 

could  understand— about  stocks"       ....  89 

"He  showed  me  the  burglar  alarm  to  ring  the 

doorbell" 93 

"  I  told  him  I  wished  he  would  n't  go  away,  be 
cause  this  was  my  home" 96 

'* I  told  him  I  wanted  some  money" 103 

" I  ain't  out  eatin'  crow" 108 

"An'  ordered  him  to  take  off  his  uniform  an'  go 

home—" Ill 

"  If  they  had  n't  'a'  held  me  back,  I  'd  'a'  wrung 

his  neck"       * 113 

Comrade  Cory  Kilbert 118 

He  was  most  portentously  sober 121 

"The  ol'  Indianny  Sixteenth  volunteer  !  "  .     .     .124 

"On  this  memorable  and  momentous  occasion"  .  126 

"  Soldiers  marching  to  and  fro  !" 129 

Post-Commander  Bigelow 137 

"Who 's  got  it?     Answer  me!" 144 

"Take  that,  you-" 150 

"I '11  stan' by  you" 153 

"He  could  n't  tell  me  any  thing" 160 

"He  tried  to  get  out  of  it" 163 

viii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

I  stamp  that  assertion  as  a  lie  " 170 

** run  away  at  the  battle  of  Wilson's  Creek  "  .   1 74 

"  A  Habeas  Corpus  " 180 

"  Wanted  him  to  know  I  had  it" 182 

"  Incompetent,  irrelevant,  immaterial "       .     .     .185 

*' Your  honor,  I  must  apologize" 187 

"  His  heart  's  all  right " 190 

"An' Robb  begun  to  cry" 193 

"Jim  Bishop  had  the  worst — to  take  him  away 

fromWes'" 197 

"  I  thought  Wes'  would  go  mad  " 201 

"It 'slaw,  but  it 's  not  justice" 203 

"One — one  mouse  trap  !" 213 

"Lord,  Letitia !  How  it  does  become  you  !  "  .219 
"  Women  are  like  grasshoppers  "  225 

The  old  days  were  gone 230 

"Robert!" 234 

The  boy  sat  up  slowly 235 

"Are  you  hungry  ?  Are  you?" 238 

The  girl  went  to  him 240 

— tiptoed  silently  out  of  the  room 249 


ix 


PREFACE 

THIS  volume  is  more  than  an  attempt  merely 
to  "novelize"  a  popular  play ;  it  is  the  result 
of  a  desire  to  translate  into  the  form  of 
fiction  the  flavor  of  Warfield's  acting  and 
the  charm  of  Belasco's  stage.  It  has  been, 
for  both  the  artist  and  the  writer,  a  labor 
of  love — an  effort  to  make  some  grateful 
record  of  the  work  of  a  wonderful  actor  and 
to  catch  in  print  and  pictures  the  atmo 
sphere  of  a  beautiful  play. 

But  it  is  the  first  condition  of  such  a 
pious  undertaking  that  the  fiction  shall 
stand  on  its  own  interest  independent  of  the 
theater — that  it  shall  not  attempt  to  repro 
duce  the  acting  and  the  stage,  but  to  trans 
late  them — that  it  shall  have  its  own 
inherent  emotions  and  the  appeal  of  its  own 
xi 


PREFACE 


art.  To  that  end  are  all  the  differences 
designed  which  exist  between  this  story  and 
the  play  on  which  it  has  been  founded. 
They  are  not  differences  in  degree  but  in 
kind.  They  were  necessary  if  the  reader 
was  to  have,  instead  of  a  pale  reflection  of 
the  drama,  a  moving  recountal  of  that  little 
idyll  of  a  girl's  love  and  a  father's  devotion, 
of  tears  not  too  bitter,  and  of  self-sacrifice 
relieved  by  the  racy  humor  of  life  in  a 
Western  town  in  the  early  '80's. 

It  is  hoped  that  for  those  who  have 
seen  the  play  the  book  will  revivify  the 
memory  of  an  inspiring  bit  of  stagecraft. 
To  those  others  who  have  never  had  the 
good  fortune  to  meet  Wes'  Bigelow  in  the 
flesh,  may  it  at  least  be  a  faithful  report 
and  reminiscence  of  him  and  serve  to  tell  his 
touching  story  where  he  cannot  come  to  tell 

it  for  himself. 

H.  J.  O'H. 


Xll 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


C 


IOME  IN.    Come  in." 

That  was  obviously  the  voice  of 
a  man  who  was  used  to  driving  a 
team ;  and  it  was  followed  by  a  heavy  stamp 
ing  of  snow-clogged  boots  on  the  porch 
outside. 

The  empty  room  shook  with  it.  You 
might  have  said  it  thrilled,  for  it  was  a 
room  that  was  as  human  as  an  old  face — 
not  the  set  and  formal  room  of  social  life, 
ready  with  a  smile  to  receive  company,  but 
the  sort  of  room  that  seems  to  wait  like  a 
mother  in  her  home,  worn  and  faded,  to  wel- 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


come,  with  all  the  charm  and  memory  of 
love,  those  to  whom  she  is  still  beautiful. 

The  light  came  cold  and  gray  through 
the  frozen  panes  of  the  little  windows,  where 
the  snow  showed  high  on  the  sills ;  but  the 
cold  gray  mellowed  on  the  faded  colors  of 
the  rag  carpet  and  took  a  warmer  tone  from 
the  sere  design  of  leaves  and  flowers  on  the 
yellowing  papers  of  the  walls.  An  old  box 
stove  radiated  heat  from  the  chimney-piece ; 
the  indescribable  faint  odors  of  home  were 
in  the  air;  and  a  wall-clock — a  clock  that 
was  stained  with  age,  and  even  hung  with  a 
broken  horseshoe  for  a  weight! — ticked 
comfortably  to  itself  in  the  silence,  as  if  it 
had  been  not  so  much  measuring  the  va 
cancy  of  the  moment  as  patiently  expecting 
the  hour  of  the  home  coming  and  the  sound 
of  this  hearty  voice  on  the  porch. 

It  was  a  room  of  almost  pious  poverty — 
judging  by  the  colored  print  of  a  flying  an 
gel  near  the  window.  And  it  was  certainly 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


the  home  of  an  old  soldier,  for  above  the 
mantel  shelf  a  flag  was  draped  beside  a  bu 
gle,  and  a  portrait  of  General  Grant  held 
the  place  of  honor  between.  Over  an  inner 
door  a  colored  photograph  of  a  small  boy 
in  red-topped  boots  explained  the  presence 
of  a  baby's  high  chair,  that  had  been  with 
drawn  into  a  corner  as  if  it  were  no  longer 
used.  A  rocking  chair  by  the  fire  awaited 
an  elderly  occupant;  the  rush-bottoms 
ranged  along  the  wall  were  emptily  expect 
ing  a  signal  to  draw  up  together  and  be 
companionable  at  their  ease. 

"Come  in.    Come  in." 

There  entered,  whip  in  hand,  a  man  past 
middle  age,  in  a  shabby  overcoat  and  a 
greasy  gray  felt  hat,  somewhat  heavy-kneed 
and  shuffling  in  his  gait — as  was  natural  in 
a  stage  driver  who  sat  long  hours  on  his 
box — and  stoop-shouldered  from  nursing 
his  reins.  He  had  the  weather-beaten  com 
plexion  of  health,  the  clear  eye  of  the  open 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


highway,  and  that  mute  kindliness  of  ex 
pression  that  comes  of  long  companionship 
with  horses. 

This  was  Bigelow — Wesley  Bigelow. 

He  went  at  once  to  a  clothes  closet — 
without  further  welcome  to  his  guest — and 
stood  his  whip  carefully  in  a  corner,  with 
the  respect  of  a  good  workman  for  his 
tools.  "Put  yer  bag  down  anywhere  you 
like,"  he  said.  "  'Tish  ain't  finicky.  Cold?" 

The  stranger  stamped  his  feet  and  swung 
his  arms.  "Phew!"  His  city  pallor  had 
turned  blue,  and  his  eyes  were  running. 
"This  's  something  new  for  Indiana." 

Bigelow  had  stripped  to  his  waistcoat, 
finding  the  room  hot.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"she  's  beginnin'  a  new  year.  I  s'pose  she 
thought  she  'd  start  things  dif'rent.  Take 
off  yer  coat  an'  set  by  the  fire  a  bit.  She  '11 
thaw  y' out.  .  .  .  Letitia!  OH,  Letitia!" 

"Corn-ing-/"  a  voice  answered  from  the 
kitchen — a  voice  thin  but  cheerful.  And  on 
6 


"That  mute  kindliness  of  expression 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


the  echo  came  a  mild  little  woman,  full  of 
the  bustling  solicitude  that  is  the  motherli- 
ness  of  an  old  maid.  There  was  still  a  sort 
of  belated  coquetry  in  her  old-fashioned 
curls.  She  paused  at  the  sight  of  the 
stranger  and  made  an  instinctive  movement 
to  take  off  her  apron,  with  a  fluttered  smile. 

"This  's  Letitia,"  Bigelow  said.  He  ex 
plained  to  her,  with  a  sideways  jerk  of  his 
head  toward  his  guest :  "Been  a  tie-up  down 
the  railroad  some'ers.  Could  n't  let  him  go 
to  Tates's  fer  New  Year's  dinner,  eh?  He  's 
from  Terry  H'ute." 

"Well,  just  now"  the  guest  corrected, 
smiling  formally  on  Miss  Letitia  Grigsby, 
"just  now  I  'm  on  my  way  from  Jefferson- 
ville.  My  name  's  Smiffen." 

"What?  Eh?  Jeffersonville!  'Tish? 
Wonder  if  he  ever  seen — " 

She  offered  her  hand  with  a  quick  mur 
mur  of  welcome,  silencing  Bigelow  with  a 
look.  The  stage  driver  turned  away  guilt- 
9 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


ily  and  shuffled  over  to  the  window,  his 
hands  thrust  deep  into  the  pockets  on  the 
front  of  his  trousers.  He  ignored  the  pas 
sage  of  compliments  and  excuses  between 
the  two  others — Letitia  apologizing  for  a 
dinner  that  had  not  been  prepared  for  com 
pany,  and  the  stranger  assuring  her  that 
any  dinner  she  might  prepare  would  be  fit 
for  the  best  company  in  the  world.  And 
when  Letitia  had  hurried  away  to  her 
kitchen,  anxious  about  a  turkey  that  had  al 
ready  been  kept  waiting  too  long,  Bigelow 
still  stood  with  his  back  to  the  room,  star 
ing  out  at  the  desolate  stalks  and  poles  of 
his  frozen  garden. 


10 


II 


Y 


'OU  'RE  cozy  here,"  Smiffen  said. 
There  was  nothing  very  notice 
able  about  Smiffen  but  his  nose — 
a  keen  nose,  that  was  still  pink  with  the 
cold.  He  was  city  dressed  and  city  man 
nered — but  provincially  so — in  a  sort  of 
middle-aged  pretension  of  youthful  smart 
ness.  He  seemed  rather  pert  in  his  evident 
sense  of  superiority  to  his  homely  sur 
roundings. 

"Cozy?"  Bigelow's  face,  when  he  turned, 
seemed  to  have  absorbed  some  of  the  cold 
gray  light  of  outdoors.  He  passed  his  eyes 
over  the  room,  in  a  look  of  dumb  misery, 
glanced  furtively  at  the  picture  of  the  boy 
in  red-topped  boots  and  shook  his  head. 
"It  ain't  what  it  ust  to  be." 
11 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Smiffen  assumed  an  air  of  decent  commis 
eration.  "A  death  in  the  family?" 

"Worse  than  that,"  Bigelow  answered 
miserably.  "Worse  than  that." 

He  went  to  an  inner  room  to  take  off  his 
boots  and  wash  his  hands  for  dinner ;  and 
Smiffen  remained  alone  by  the  stove.  He 
cocked  one  round  eye  at  the  boy's  portrait, 
blew  his  nose  reflectively  in  a  huge  handker 
chief,  and  blinked. 

It  was  the  blink  of  curiosity — the  shrewd 
and  watchful  blink  of  a  parrot  with  its  head 
on  one  side. 

He  was  a  commercial  traveler — a  "drum 
mer  ;"  and  his  necessary  study  of  the  weak 
nesses  of  his  customers,  and  their  soft  sides, 
had  made  him  a  keen  observer  of  human 
character.  He  rather  prided  himself  on  his 
ability  to  "pump"  a  secret.  And  yet  he 
was  sympathetic,  too,  like  a  gossipy  woman, 
and  as  kindly  as  he  was  curious.  His  mouth 
was  kind ;  and  the  blond  baldness  of  his  head 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


and  the  clean-shaven  plumpness  of  his  face 
made  him  seem  colorlessly  inoffensive. 

He  understood  that  Wes'  Bigelow  was 
an  old  bachelor,  and  Letitia  Grigsby,  his 
housekeeper,  an  old  maid ;  so  the  high  chair 
in  the  corner  must  indicate  an  adopted 
child.  It  must  be  the  boy  of  the  portrait. 
He  was  not  dead,  but  something  had  hap 
pened  to  him — something  heart  breaking, 
to  judge  by  Bigelow's  expression,  some 
thing  shameful,  to  judge  by  the  look  with 
which  Letitia  had  silenced  the  old  driver. 
What  was  it? 

He  stroked  his  nose  reflectively,  pinched 
it  between  thumb  and  forefinger,  and  ex 
panded  it — blew  it  up — until  at  the  sudden 
withdrawal  of  his  fingers,  it  fairly  popped 
with  the  outrush  of  air.  This  was  a  man 
nerism  acquired  at  the  "checker"  board, 
where  it  indicated  that  he  was  puzzled  to  un 
derstand  his  opponent's  game ;  and  since  he 
was  an  almost  invincible  checker  player,  it 
15 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


was  a  mannerism  that  had,  to  his  mind,  the 
distinction  of  any  idiosyncrasy  of  the  great. 
He  was  proud  of  it. 

It  might  be  accepted  as  characterizing 
the  process  of  his  thought.  As  the  judicial 
stroke  the  chin,  the  sagacious  pull  the  lobe 
of  the  ear,  the  dense  scratch  the  scalp,  and 
the  studious  play  with  a  forelock,  so  Smiffen 
alternately  pinched  and  fondled  the  nose — 
perhaps  because  it  is  the  organ  of  scent,  the 
tool  of  the  prying. 

He  coughed  behind  his  hand,  as  discreetly 
as  if  he  were  at  a  funeral.  Then  he  sat  back 
and  looked  sadly  at  the  stove,  prepared  to 
listen  and  be  sympathetic. 

Presently  Letitia  returned,  rather  flus 
tered,  to  propose  that  she  should  lay  the 
dinner  here,  on  the  marble-topped  center  ta 
ble,  since  the  dining  room  was  cold.  (And 
Smiffen  said  to  himself,  "They  're  hard  up ! 
They  don't  light  the  fire  in  there— to  save 
wood.")  Bigelow  opened  the  bundle  he  had 
16 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


thrown  on  the  window  seat,  and  showed  to 
his  housekeeper,  apologetically,  a  pair  of 
new  blankets  for  his  horses,  "Countersign" 
and  "Cartridge."  (And  Smiffen  noted  not 
only  the  simple  humanity  of  the  New 
Year's  gift,  but  the  fact  that  an  apology 
accompanied  such  a  necessary  extrava 
gance.)  Letitia,  as  she  spread  the  table 
cloth,  complained  that  Bigelow  was  late  for 
dinner ;  and  when  Bigelow  explained  that  he 
had  been  delivering  trunks,  she  remon 
strated:  "Wes',  I  hate  to  think  of  you 
haulin'  trunks  fer  people  that  ain't  pas 
sengers.  Your  father  would  n't  'a'  done 
it." 

"Well,"  he  replied  cheerfully,  "the 
world  's  full  o'  people  doin'  things  their 
fathers  would  n't  'a'  done."  And  Smiffen, 
smiling  appreciatively  under  his  nose  at  the 
retort,  observed  that  there  had  evidently 
been  a  day  when  Bigelow  himself  would  not 
have  delivered  trunks.  (The  secret  that 
17 


"Your  father  would  n't  'a'  done  it  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


concerned  the  boy  involved  also,  then,  a 
change  of  fortune  for  the  family.) 

When  they  were  all  seated  at  the  table, 
another  incident  occurred  to  pique  curios 
ity.  Bigelow,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  looked  at 
the  turkey  and  the  cranberry  sauce,  and 
said,  "D'  you  think  they  get  them  there, 
'Tish— the  turkey  an'  the  usuals?"  And  Le- 
titia  answered  guardedly,  "Oh,  I  've  heard 
they  do.  Ain't  you  goin'  to  say  grace, 
Wes'?" 

He  bowed  his  head  in  a  pious  mutter  of 
thanksgiving,  and  then  they  began  to  eat  in 
silence. 

No  one  spoke  until  Smiffen,  looking  up  at 
the  portrait  of  the  boy  that  faced  him  over 
the  doorway,  said  winningly,  "A  fine-look 
ing  youngster.  That  's  a  great  forehead 
he  's  got." 

It  was  the  bulging  round  forehead  of 
precocity. 

"It  ought  to  be,"  Bigelow  rose  to  the 
bait.  "It  ought  to  be— with  a  million 
19 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


dollars'  worth  of  inventions  floatin'  'round 
in  his  brains!" 

"You  don't  say  so!  Fine-looking  boy. 
Is  he  yours?" 

Bigelow  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  portrait 
and  dwelt  upon  it  as  if  it  were  a  holy  icon. 
"He  was  a  dead  comrade's  son,  an'  'Tish 
an'  me  raised  him."  He  pushed  back  his 
plate,  with  his  food  almost  untouched,  and 
watched  Smiffen's  artful  admiration  of 
the  picture. 

"They  's  no  denyin'  Robb  has  pers'nal 
magnetism,"  Bigelow  said  to  Letitia. 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  personal 
magnetism?"  Smiffen  drew  him  on. 

He  made  vague  gestures  with  his  clumsy 
hands.  "Pers'nal  magnetism — it  's  some 
thing  that  sort  o' — sort  o'  comes  out  o' 
you.  It  's  a  thing—  Well,  if  you  've  got 
it  every  one  thinks  as  you  do,  right  or 
wrong.  That  's  the  way  it  is  with  Robb." 

This    was    not    eminently     satisfactory. 
Smiffen  busied  himself  with  his  food. 
20 


"  The  world  's  full  o'  people  doin'  things 
their  fathers  would  n't  'a'  done  '' 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"Looks  like  a  clever  boy,"  he  said 
thickly. 

"Clever !  There  's  a  boy  that  before  he 
'was  eighteen  was  inventin'  paint  an' 
printin'  presses  an'  spring  bolts  an' — 
Why  he  could  make  anything.  He  rigged 
up  a  scheme  fer  'Tish  there  to  do  away 
with  her  washboards.  Did  n't  he,  'Tish?" 

"Did  it  work?"  Smiffen  asked  her. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  worked,"  she  said.  "It  took 
longer,  but — " 

"But  it  was  newer"  Bigelow  put  in. 

"You  're  not  eatin'  your  turkey,"  she 
remonstrated. 

"I  ain't  hungry,"  he  said  rather  pathet 
ically,  his  eyes  full  of  tender  thoughts  of 
the  boy.  "Look  here,"  he  turned  to 
Smiffen.  "I  want  to  tell  you.  I  want  you 
should  know  about  our  boy — so  as  if  you 
ever  hear  anything  ag'in'  him— 

And  Smiffen  said  to  himself,  "Here  it 
comes !" 


Ill 


BIGELOW  shoved  back  his  chair 
and  sank  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  drooped  his  head;  and  the 
pockets  being  high  in  front,  the  action 
raised  his  shoulders,  so  that  his  chin  came 
on  his  chest,  and  he  sat  in  an  attitude  of 
meditation,  with  profound  eyes.  He  said 
at  last,  "I  was  tryin'  to  think  what  day  it 
was.  ...  It  must  'a'  been  the  day  that 
we  opened  the  new  G.  A.  R.  hall  that 
night." 

"Wes'  was  the  post  commander,"  Leti- 
tia  explained  under  her  voice,  passing 
Smiffen  the  "boat"  of  cranberry  sauce. 

Smiffen  nodded  sagely. 

"Yes,  sir,"  Bigelow  recollected,  "that  's 
what  it  was  .  .  .  They  was  people  settin' 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


along  the  road  t'  ask  'bout  the  openin' 
when  the  stage  went  by.  .  .  .  They  tol' 
me,  down  to  Tates',  they  was  twenty-four 
strangers  in  town." 

Smiffen  concealed  a  somewhat  superior 
smile. 

Bigelow  reflected,  "That  's  a  funny 
thing,  now.  I  thought  it  must  'a'  been  a 
sort  o'  dark  day  er  something.  An'  it 
warn't.  I  mind,  when  I  come  in  here,  how 
the  sunlight  was  blowin'  in  the  window." 
There  was  in  his  tone  a  vague  implication 
that  he  had  not  seen  sunlight  in  that  win 
dow  since.  "Jim  was  here  with  you, 
was  n't  he,  'Tish?"  he  asked— and  then  ex 
plained,  with  a  crooked  smile,  to  Smiffen, 
"Jim  's  an  ol'  comrade  that  's  been  pro- 
posin'  to  Letitia  ev'ry  now  an'  then  fer  the 
las'  twenty  years!" 

"Why,  Wes',"  she  cried  in  a  confusion 
of  withered  blushes,  "he  was  waitin'  fer 
the  meetin' !" 

"What  meetin'?" 


"They  tol'  me,  .  .  .  they  was  twenty-four 
strangers  in  town  " 


=? 

IH 


.' 


II 


: 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"The  Post  meetin'." 

"Sure  enough!  It  was  our  last  meetin' 
before  movin'  into  the  new  hall.  That  's 
right!  That  's  right!  We  sat  at  this 
very  table  here — me  an'  Cory  Kilbert  an' 
Jim  Bishop  with  the  minutes — an'  Potter 
an'  Tucker  an'  ol'  Tate  an'— an'  Let'  Pet- 
tingill.  Yes,  sir.  Let'  Pettingill  was 
here.  Well,  well!  Who  'd  V  thought  it!" 
He  puckered  his  lips,  looking  back  upon 
that  gathering  with  a  memoried  eye,  and 
seeing  all  its  trivial  incidents  in  a  new 
light.  "Let'  Pettingill,  eh?  Let'  Pettin 
gill!"  He  seemed  to  find  in  the  name  a 
new  meaning,  a  sinister  sound.  "He  was 
squabblin'  with  ev'ry  one,  same  as  usual, 
too,  an'  snarlin'  'roun'  showin'  his  teeth. 
We  might  'a'  knowed  what  he  'd  do  some 
day.  .  .  .  Well,  a  man  's  what  God  makes 
him."  He  forgave  Pettingill  with  a  ges 
ture.  "We  might  'a'  done  better  by  him, 
mebbe.  We  nagged  him,  I  guess.  P'raps 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


it  was  n't  him  that  was  to  blame,  but  the 
drink.  .  .  .  He  'd  been  drunk  the  meetin' 
before,  an'  he  was  the  treasurer,  an'  our 
safe  was  an  ol'  Rev'lution'ry  relic,  an' 
that  's  how  it  come  about  that  we  sent 
Robb  over  to  Wapahoe  City  bank  with  the 
money,  on  his  bicycle — the  first  bicycle  in 
the  county  seat.  Yes,  sir.  Robb's  was 
the  first."  He  set  his  mouth  in  a  proud 
compression  of  the  lips.  "That  showed 
what  they  all  thought  o'  Robb — an  eigh- 
teen-year-ol'  boy,  trustin'  him  with  over  a 
thousan'  dollars — ten  hunderd  dollars  an' 
forty-seven  cents !" 

He  caught  Letitia's  eye  and  dropped 
that  incident  of  his  story  suddenly,  in  an 
evasive  silence. 

"It  was  the  money  we  'd  been  savin'  up 
fer  the  new  G.  A.  R.  hall.  We  'd  been  ten 
years  freezin'  the  town  up  with  ice-cream 
socials  an'  thawin'  it  out  with  oyster  stews, 
so  as  to  get  it." 

27 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Smiffen  laughed  encouragingly. 

Bigelow  smiled  a  queer  three-cornered 
sort  of  reluctant  smile  that  lifted  at  one 
side  to  show  a  wisdom  tooth.  "We  made 
Jim  Bishop  chairman  o'  the  dancin'  com 
mittee  fer  the  night — wooden  leg  an'  all — 
so  as  people  with  two  sound  legs  'd  be 
ashamed  to  sit  round  an'  see  him." 

"Ha-ha!  Good  enough,"  Smiffen  ap 
plauded. 

"An'  we  purty  near  raised  a  riot  by  ap- 
pointin'  Let'  Pettingill  chairman  o'  the 
drinkin'  committee.  He  got  up  on  his  hind 
legs  an'  went  after  Jim  an'  Cory  fer 
laughin'  at  it.  ...  Them  boys!  Our 
meetin's  ust  to  sound  like  a  sessions  in  a 
kennels! — with  Jim  an'  Cory  scrappin' 
about  politics  ev'ry  other  minute,  an'  then 
goin'  after  Pettingill  together  when  their 
hair  was  up.  It  ust  to  keep  me  poundin' 
the  hammer  on  this  ol'  marble-top  like 
a  stone  breaker."  He  lay  back  in  his  chair 
and  chuckled  genially,  his  rugged  smile 
28 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


beaming  with  humanity,  and  all  his  miser 
ies  forgotten  for  the  moment. 

"They  're  a  great  lot  o'  boys.  They 
ought  to  be  in  here  t'day — pay  in'  New 
Year's  calls.  You  '11  see  'em,  mebbe.  .  .  . 
Well,  sir,  I  've  knowed  'em  since  I  was 
'bout  so  high.  An'  my!  how  they  've 
changed !"  He  added :  "An'  my !  how  they 
hain't  changed!"  He  shook  his  head  over 
it.  "We  ust  to  think  a  lot  o'  Let'  Pettingill 
in  them  days — 'cause  he  'd  never  do  what 
his  ma  tol'  him — little  red-headed  ras 
cal.  She  'd  call  an'  call  to  him,  from  the 
back  door,  to  come  an'  bring  her  in  some 
wood,  er  a  pail  o'  water,  an'  he  'd  go  on 
playin'  with  us  as  if  he  never  heerd  her. 
Never  turn  his  head.  Cory  'd  go  an'  get  it 
fer  her,  like  's  not.  He  was  fat  then,  too  — 
Cory  was.  He  's  round  's  a  tub  now. 
Great  boy,  Cory!  .  .  .  Jim  Bishop  was  al- 
'ays  kind  o'  pious.  A  good  boy,  though — 
an'  a  fighter  when  he  got  mad.  He  made  a 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


record  in  the  war  .  .  .  Pettingill  enlisted 
at  the  first  shot.  It  was  a  case  o'  run  away 
from  home  fer  him — anything  fer  devil 
ment  .  .  .  Jim  Bishop  said  his  prayers 
over  it  an'  volunteered  with  his  mouth  shut. 
He  knowed  his  duty  ...  I  guess  Cory 
went  'cause  all  the  rest  of  us  did.  I  did  n't 
know  much  about  Cap.  Bestor  them  days. 
He  lived  in  the  big  house  up  the  hill.  They 
all  said  it  was  the  unyform  got  him.  Han'- 
some  boy.  Well — " 

He  came  back  to  his  subject  with  a  sigh. 
"We  had  our  last  meetin'  right  here — be 
fore  we  moved  into  the  new  Hall.  An* 
when  we  'd  distributed  the  badges  fer  the 
night,  an'  the  boys  'd  took  out  the  locker — 
Hoi'  on,  though!  Hoi'  on!  Judge  An 
drews  come  in  before  that." 

"Judge  Andrews?"  Smiffen  queried,  as  if 
he  dimly  remembered  the  name. 

"Tall  lean   man,   with  a  bunch  o'  gray 
horsehair  on  his  chin.     'D  be  a  good-lookin' 
31 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


man  if  he  did  n't  look  as  hard  outside  as  he 
is  inside.  Sort  o'  man  that  's  got  a  face 
like  a  stone  in  a  wall — with  a  crack  o' 
mortar  in  it  fer  a  mouth.  Eh?  Know 
him?" 

Smiffen  shook  his  head  and  returned  his 
plate  to  Letitia  for  another  helping.  He 
was  enjoying  himself — cramming  himself 
with  food  and  gossip  and  chuckling  appre 
ciatively  over  both. 

Bigelow  blinked  with  a  knowing  grim- 
ness  and  drew  down  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  "He  was  an  ol'  vet,  too — an'  our 
Senior  Vice — but  he  did  n't  come  roun'  to 
Post  meetin's  any.  He  'd  levied  on  a  cow 
an'  some  chickens  that  was  all  that  was  left 
to  the  widow  of  one  of  our  Post  members — 
an'  the  boys  'd  soured  cm  him  fer  it.  We  all 
got  out  ag'in  him  on  election  day  an'  made 
our  evens — but  he  did  n't  like  us  none  the 
better  fer  bein'  licked."  He  jerked  his  head 
in  the  direction  of  the  door.  "When  he 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


come  in  there,  just  as  meetin'  was  breakin' 
up,  we  made  him  welcome  best  we  could. 
He  took  it  like  you  was  offerin'  a  pippin  to 
a  horse  that  'd  bite  yer  hand  if  you  did  n't 
watch  him. 

"  'I  ast  to  be  excused,'  he  says,  'from 
servin'  on  any  committees  t'-night,'  he  says. 
He  's  got  a  voice  like  a  hound  bayin'  in  a 
rain  bar'l.  'I  '11  drop  in  durin'  the  evenin' 
with  my  daughter  Hallie,'  he  says.  'It 
promises  to  be  a  mixed  affair,'  he  says, 
'but  we  '11  remain  a  short  time.'  An'  so  on. 
Talk  like  that— 'bout  'G.  A.  R.  affairs  cal- 
lin'  out  a  rough  attendance,'  an'  so  forth. 

"That  cut  into  my  hide.  'Well,  Judge,' 
I  says,  'ol'  soldiers  ain't  al'ays  social 
leaders,'  I  says.  'When  our  country  needed 
men,  she  took  'em  wherever  she  could  get 
'em.  Sometimes  they  were  rough,'  I  says, 
'but  a  rough  man  died  just  's  hard  's  a  pol 
ished  one  an'  fought  'bout  's  well,'  I  says. 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


the  Post  's  hearth,'  says  I.  'Don't  know 
but  what  I  prefer  'em.  I  belong  to  the 
mixed  classes  myself.' ' 

Bigelow  had  thrown  back  his  head  and 
squared  his  jaw,  glowering  reminiscently. 

"  'My  objection,'  the  Judge  says — says 
he — 'is  'at  you  invite  only  soldiers'  frien's 
an'  soldiers'  widows  an'  soldiers'  sympathiz 
ers.  Why  not  appeal  to  another  class?' 

"  'You  mean,'  I  says,  'the  ones  that 
stayed  home  an'  got  rich  while  we  saved  the 
Union?' 

"That  started  him  off  fer  the  door  with 
a  crack  o'  the  whip.  I  had  to  whoa  him  up 
an'  coax  him  to  back  in  ag'in.  An'  then  I 
says,  'As  senior  Vice,  don't  you  think  y' 
ought  to  drill  with  us  t'-night?'  says  I. 
An'  he  sticks  out  his  long  finger  at  me,  an' 
he  says,  'I  been  judge  in  this  distric'  fer 
seventeen  years,'  he  says,  'an'  honored  in 
my  state.  I  've  got  a  repatation  fer  sever 
ity,  I  believe,  but  no  one  never  questioned 
34 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


my  integrity.  You,'  he  says,  'you,  a  bro 
ther  veteran,  took  off  yer  coat  to  defeat  me 
durin'  the  last  election,  an'  the  members  o' 
this  Post  followed  yer  example.  After 
seventeen  years  I  retire  from  the  bench  a 
target  fer  public  abuse.  You,'  he  says, 
'you — ' 

"  'Yes,'  I  says.  'When  Jim  Pope  died, 
owin'  you  a  small  amount,'  I  says,  'I  might 
'a'  kep'  quiet  when  you  took  possession  of 
his  widow's  cow.  I  might  'a'  swallowed  the 
cow,'  I  says,  'but  when  you  sent  back  an' 
levied  on  the  chickens'  " — he  pointed  to  his 
throat  significantly — "  'those  chickens  stuck 
right  here!' 

"  'Legally,'  he  says,  'that  widow's  pos 
sessions  belonged  to  me!' 

"  'Judge,'  I  says,  'if  God  A'mighty  don't 
make  a  charitable  man,  they  's  no  use  no 
body  else  undertakin'  the  contrac','  I  says. 
'I  give  you  the  road.'  An'  he  clapped  on 
his  hat,  an'  piled  out  the  door  there,  with 
35 


*  If  God  A'mighty  don't  make  a  charitable  man,  they 
no  use  nobody  else  undertakin'  the  contrac'  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


as  much  noise  as  a  team  goin'  over  the 
Boggsville  bridge." 

Smiffen  laughed  applaudingly,  and 
slapped  the  table.  "Good!  Good  enough!" 
There  was  a  new  look  in  his  pale  eyes ;  it 
was  one  of  amused  admiration. 

Bigelow  waited — his  mouth  hard  in 
wrath,  his  nostrils  working.  "Warn't  I 
right?" 

"You  were.     You  were." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  "Yes," 
he  said  hoarsely,  "an'  it  warn't  more  'n  a 
day  more  before  I  'd  've  eat  ev'ry  word  of 
it.  Ev'ry  word  of  it!  Without  butter. 
That  's  what  it  is  to  be  right!" 


IV 


HE  rose  from  his  chair  and  began 
to  pace  up  and  down  the  room. 
"I  was  right  'bout  Robert,  too, 
an'  what  come  of  it?    Ev'ry  one  else  wanted 
me  to  put  him  stage  drivin' — " 

Letitia  suggested  mildly,  "Well,  I  can't 
help  thinkin'  we  ain't  done  right  to  bring 
up  Robb  the  way  we  did,  Wes'.  Sendin' 
him  to  college  was  bad  fer  him,  maybe." 

"Did  you  send  him  to  college?"  Smiffen 
asked,  amazed. 

"Yes ;  a  year  in  a  bus'ness  college,"  Bige- 
low  explained  simply.  "Don't  you  worry 
'bout  Robert,  'Tish.  He  's  greater  'n  Rob 
ert  Fulton." 

"Oh,  Wes'J"  she  remonstrated. 
38 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"Well,"  he  cried,  "what  'd  Robert  Fulton 
ever  invent?.  Nothin'  but  steam.  While 
Robb — paint  an'  bolts  an'  printin'  presses 
an'-" 

"But  he  ain't!" 

"He  will.  Give  him  time.  I  've  been  as 
sure  of  him  ever  since  he  was  a  little  scamp 
in  red-topped  boots." 

She  resigned  herself  to  silence,  looking 
at  him  with  the  fond  anxiety  of  the  woman 
who  dares  not  interfere. 

"Why,  that  same  afternoon,"  he  said, 
"after  the  meetin',  when  he  come  ridin'  up 
on  his  bicycle—  Why,  his  mind  was  that 
full  o'  things  he  scarcely  saw  a  body.  It 
was  'Hello,  Aunt  Letitia,'  an'  'Hello,  Dad,' 
an'  then  he  grabs  his  saw  off  the  mantel  an' 
his  plane  off  the  desk,  an'  begins  workin' 
away  at  them  shelves  he  was  makin'  fer 
'Tish's  books.  He  did  n't  have  time  to  eat — 
that  boy.  Bite  a  sandwich,  gulp  a  glass  o' 
milk,  an'  grab  a  saw  ag'in.  I  tell  you  he 
39 


"  He  did  n't  have  time  to  eat— that  boy  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


made  the  chips  fly.  It  kep'  us  busy  cleanin' 
up  after  him.  Did  n't  it,  'Tish?" 

"Most  wore  out  my  turkey  feather,"  Le- 
titia  confessed. 

Bigelow  smiled  and  smiled  with  a  mist  in 
his  eyes,  recalling  the  vanished  presence 
that  had  meant  so  much  to  them.  "Won 
derful  boy !  You  could  tell  he  was  a  genius 
— he  was  so  modest.  I  could  see  he  was  sort 
o'  worried  about  something.  I  thought  it 
was  his  inventions,  because  he  said  he  had  n't 
been  able  to  keep  his  mind  on  'em.  I  cheered 
him  up.  4Yer  thoughts  ain't  just  right  yet,' 
I  told  him.  'A  good  soldier  's  got  to  wait 
till  it  5s  time  to  fire.  P'raps  these  setbacks 
are  needed  fer  the  upbuildin'  o'  genius,'  I 
says.  'All  sunshine  an'  no  rain  don't  bring 
out  the  fields.'  'Well,'  he  says,  'mebbe 
you  're  right,  Dad.'  " 

Letitia  interrupted.  "He  was  worried 
'bout  his  mail.  He  was  expectiii'  a  letter." 

"That 's  so !  That 's  so !"  Bigelow  stopped 
41 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


to  eye  her  with  a  new  comprehension. 
"That  letter  from  town,  eh?  He  must  'a' 
been  worryin'  about  it  then" 

She  nodded  sadly.  "Don't  you  remem 
ber  you  sent  the  boy  over  on  the  colt  fer  the 
las'  mail.  .  .  .  An'  I  thought  't  was  all  be 
cause  he  was  in  love." 

"Why!"  Bigelow  said.  "That  's  what 
he  must  'a'  meant  when  he  said  he  was  goin' 
to  make  his  fortune.  D'  you  'member?  'I 
won't  explain  jus'  yet,'  he  says,  'but  before 
I  get  through  I  '11  be  ev'ry  bit  as  big  a  man 
as  Judge  Andrews.'  That  's  what  it  was." 
He  groaned  and  shook  his  head.  "If  we  'd 
only  knowed,  'Tish.  It  might  n't  'a'  been 
too  late — then" 

They  stared  at  each  other,  in  a  reminis 
cent  tragicality. 

"I  could  see  he  was  discontented,"  he  ex 
plained  to  Smiffen,  who  had  been  listening 
with  a  sympathy  that  was  no  longer  merely 
assumed.  "But  I  did  n't  know  what  it  was. 
42 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


I  thought  it  was  just  'at  he  was  young  an5 
seein'  things  in  lumps.  He  was  talkin5  'bout 
havin'  failed  in  life — him  that  had  n't  both 
feet  out  o'  the  shell  yet!  Talkin'  about 
ev'ry  one  in  town  bein'  down  on  him  because 
he  'd  been  born  without  a  penny  in  his 
pocket — as  if  ev'rybody  warn't!  An'  com- 
plainin'  because  he  warn't  ast  to  Judge  An 
drews'.  That  was  another  thing.  An' 
sayin'  that  young  Wellman  was  ast  there 
right  along."  He  shook  his  head,  in  deep 
thought,  piecing  it  all  together. 

Smiffen  asked,  to  keep  him  going,  "Who 
was  Wellman?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  Bigelow  began  at  the  be 
ginning,  "Wellman  an'  Robb  'd  been  at 
school  together,  with  young  Hallie  An 
drews,  the  Judge's  daughter.  An'  then 
Wellman  went  to  Indianap'lis — he  was  a  lot 
older  'n  Robb — to  study  in  a  law  office.  An' 
he  came  back  here  that  spring  to  represent 
the  District  Attorney  before  the  Grand 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Jury.  An'  Judge  Andrews  'd  kind  o'  picked 
him  out  fer  Hallie — an'  he  lorded  it  over 
Robb.  He  come  in  here  one  day  fer  an  ex 
press  package.  Sort  o'  doughfaced-lookin' 
feller,  with  spectacles  an'  a  walkin'  stick. 
The  kind  that  's  al'ays  blowin'  'bout  how 
he  's  got  along.  An'  when  Robb  spoke  up 
'bout  some  people  havin'  luck,  says  he,  'My 
dear  boy,'  he  says  through  his  nose,  'there  's 
no  such  thing  as  luck.  I  had  n't  any  bad 
habits,'  he  says,  't'  encourage  me  to  throw 
away  my  money.  I  neither  drink  ner  smoke, 
an'  I  've  al'ays  found  time  t'  atten'  church 
ev'ry  Sunday' — an'  he  stalks  out  with  his 
chin  up,  sayin'  something  'bout  jus'  havin' 
time  to  get  to  supper  at  the  Judge's 
An'  that  brung  it  all  to  a  head  with 
Robb. 

"  'There  you  see,  Dad,'  he  says,  'that  fel 
ler  comes  back  home  an'  gets  the  girl  he 
wants.  If  a  boy  's  goin'  to  succeed  he  's  got 
to  get  away  from  where  ev'rybody  knows 
44 


I  had  n't  any  bad  habits,'  he  says 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


him.'  An'  then  he  up  an'  out  with  it  that 
he  was  goin'  to  leave  home. 

"At  first —  Well,  when  yer  boy  says  a 
thing  like  that,  you  don't  know — you  don't 
know  how  to  think.  At  first  I  did  n't  believe 
him.  An'  then  I  tried  to  put  him  off  by 
tellin'  him  to  go  over  to  Terry  H'ute  fer  a 
day  an'  see  life.  An'  then  when  he  went  on 
'bout  havin'  big  plans  to  get  the  money  to  go 
away — an'  how  he  'd  never  amount  to  a  row 
o'  pins  if  he  stayed  here — er  he  'd  go  to  the 
devil —  He  was  shakin'  like  a  colt,  as  white 
as  paper.  I  thought  he  'd  overstudied, 
mebbe — a  boy  like  him,  talkin'  foolishness!" 

"So,"  Letitia  put  in,  with  spirit,  "  'stead 
o'  listenin'  to  him,  you  ordered  him  off  to  lie 
down  in  the  hammock.  An'  then  you  quar 
reled  with  me  fer  tryin'  to  tell  you  he  was  in 
love!" 

Bigelow  had  taken  a  horse  collar  out  of 
the  closet  and  sat  down  to  mend  it,  like  a 
cobbler,  with  needle  and  waxed  thread. 
46 


She  burst  into  tears  and  fled  from  the  room  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"You  were  pickin'  at  the  boy,"  he  defended 
himself.  "Ev'rybody  was  pickin'  at  him, 
'cause  they  could  n't  see  the  workin'  of  his 
brain.  .  .  .  They  could  n't  see  far." 

Letitia  rose  to  clear  the  dishes  from  the 
table.  "A  woman  may  not  see  's  far  's  a 
man,"  she  said,  "but  what  she  does  see  she 
sees  quicker.  I  could  see  that  boy  was 
spoilt." 

"Well,  if  he  was  spoilt,"  Bigelow  cried, 
"it  was  you  spoilt  him." 

"The  whole  town  was  criticizin'  you 
fer— " 

"An'  you  were  sidin'  with  'em.     You — " 

"Yes,"  she  declared.  "I  was  sidin' 
with—" 

"Well,  that  fer  this  town,"  he  cried  in  a 
passion,  snapping  his  fingers.  "An'  that!" 
He  threw  the  horse  collar  on  the  floor  at  her 
feet,  and  she  retreated  from  the  storm  she 
had  raised,  taking  refuge  behind  the  table. 

"Why,  Wes',"  she  whimpered. 
49 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"I  come  home  here  t'-day  perfectly  amia 
ble,"  he  shouted,  shaking  his  fist  at  her. 
"An'  you  keep  at  that  boy !  Dern  it !  You 
keep  a-pickin'  at  him  an'  a-dingin'  at  him !" 

She  burst  into  tears  and  fled  from  the 
room. 

"You  keep  a-pickin'  at  him  an'  a-dingin' 
at  him!"  he  cried,  stamping  about.  "An' 
a-pickin'  at  him  an'  a-dingin'  at  him !" 

He  flung  out  of  the  room  himself,  slam 
ming  the  door  after  him ;  and  Smiff en,  look 
ing  around  at  the  sudden  emptiness  of  the 
place,  lay  back  in  his  chair,  convulsed  with  a 
silent  laughter  that  was  not  at  all  unkind. 

Before  he  could  compose  his  features, 
Bigelow  burst  in  again,  and  pointing  a 
threatening  forefinger  at  the  closed  door  of 
the  staircase  up  which  Letitia  had  vanished, 
he  shouted  in  a  voice  that  shook  the  win 
dows,  "You  let  that  boy  alone !  You  let  him 
alone !  I  brought  up  Robert  to  suit  myself, 
an'  I  won't  hear  no  more  'bout  it !" 
50 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


His  angry  glance  fell  on  Smiffen,  and  he 
snorted,  fuming. 

"What  's  that?"  he  cried  wheeling  on  the 
closed  door.  There  was  no  answer.  He 
caught  up  the  horse  collar  from  the  floor, 
turned  on  the  door  again,  opened  his  mouth 
and  shut  it,  and  stood  listening. 

He  could  hear  nothing.  He  stood  back 
to  look,  through  the  fanlight,  at  the  stair 
case  landing  above.  He  could  see  nothing. 
Then  he  called,  in  a  relenting  tone,  "Leti- 
tia!"  He  got  no  answer.  "Letitia!"  No 
answer.  He  opened  the  door,  and  said, 
"'Tish!  'Tish!" 

It  was  all  so  delightfully  simple  and  un 
conscious  that  Smiffen  turned  his  back  on 
it,  touched,  and  went  to  the  window  to  smile 
out  at  the  snow. 

"'Tish,"  he  pleaded.  "Oh,  come  on, 
'Tish.  Come  on  an'  set  down." 

And  when  Letitia  came  down  the  stairs 
again,  wiping  her  eyes,  he  apologized, 
51 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"Come  an'  set  down.     Mebbe  I — I  admit  I 
was  hasty.    I — " 

"If  you  'd  only  take  a  calm  view  o* 
things,"  she  sobbed.  "But  if  I  ever — " 

"Now  I  'm— I  'm  'calm,'  'Tish,"  he 
wheedled  her,  showing  all  his  teeth  in  an  in 
gratiating  grin  that  was  irresistible  in  its 
pitiable  eagerness  to  make  up.  "I  'm  just 
as  pleasant." 

"I  know  what  Robb  's  meant  to  you,"  she 
protested,  allowing  herself  to  be  coaxed  into 
a  chair.  "But  just  because  his  mother  was 
the  only  woman  you  ever — " 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  he  said.  "Pshaw!  We 
ain't  goin'  to  quarrel  after  all  these  years. 
Two  parents  like  us — " 

"That  's  just  the  way  Wes'  went  on,"  she 
accused  him  to  Smiffen,  "when  I  told  him 
Robb  wanted  to  run  away  because  he  was  in 
love." 

Bigelow  sat  down,  subdued,  and  began  to 
sew  penitently  on  his  horse  collar. 
52 


"He  flung  out  of  the  room  himself" 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"An*  it  was  n't  till  I  showed  him  the  let 
ters  Robb  had  written  to  Hallie  an'  been 
afraid  to  send — right  in  this  drawer  here." 
She  went  to  the  desk  to  show  him.  "Robb 
did  n't  know  I  could  get  into  his  drawer  by 
takin'  out  this  upper  one.  An'  it  was  n't  till 
I  showed  Wes'  the  book  'To  Hallie  An 
drews  from  Robb,'  an'  all  those  letters  ad 
dressed —  " 

"Well,  an  eighteen-year-old  boy!"  Bige- 
low  argued.  "With  his  head  full  o'  paints 
an'  printin'  presses !  I  did  n't  think  he  was 
that  kind  o'  boy." 

"You  were  that  kind  o'  boy,  were  n't  you  ? 
DJ  you  think  he  was  the  only  one  off  his  pat 
tern?" 

"Why,  it  did  n't  seem  more  'n  the  day  be 
fore  that  I  'd  seen  him  out  in  the  garden 
ridin'  on  a  stick  horse !" 

"Yes,  an'  when  I  proved  it  to  you,  what  'd 
you  say?  What  'd  you  say?  That  he  'd 
been  led  on!  That  he  'd  never  'a'  thought 
55 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


of  it  himself !  That  she  'd  led  him  on.  You 
were  just  as  unreasonable,  Wes'." 

"Well,  p'raps  I  was,"  he  admitted  hum 
bly.  "P'raps  I  was.  But  I  could  n't  let  my 
boy  go  without  tryin'  to  keep  him,  'Tish. 
.  .  .  An' I  did  n't,  neither,"  he  boasted.  "I 
got  the  girl  fer  him  anyway,  if  he  had  n't 
'a'  gone  an' — " 

"What?"  Smiffen  blurted  out.  "Did  n't 
he — "  He  sat  down,  blushing  at  this  sud 
den  betrayal  of  a  curiosity  which  they 
might  consider  impertinent.  "I  mean  I  'd 
like  to — "  He  had  supposed  that  the  boy 
had  run  away  because  of  an  unfortunate 
love  affair.  "I  feel  sort  of  a  personal  in 
terest  in  him.  I— 

"Well,"  Bigelow  challenged  his  house 
keeper,  "they  's  no  denyin'  Robb  has  mag 
netism."  She  did  not  dispute  it.  "I  '11  tell 
you,"  he  said  to  Smiffen.  "Robb  don't 
know  'bout  it,  but —  I'll  tell  you  how  it 


was. 


56 


HE  sewed  on  his  horse  collar. 
"You  see,"  he  said,  punctuating 
his  narrative  with  stitches,  "the 
gal  came  over  here  that  afternoon  to  bring 
some  flowers  she  wanted  to  give  'Tish  fer 
the  openin'  o'  the  new  hall  to  put  on  the 
Relief  Corps  table.  An'  I  coaxed  her  to 
come  in  an'  set  a  little.  .  .  .  No,  she 
could  n't  come  in,  at  first.  An'  then  she 
could  n't  stay.  An'  then  she  could  only 
stay  a  minute.  .  .  .  Well,  I  had  n't  rightly 
seen  her  since  she  was  growed  up,  an'  when 
I  put  on  my  glasses  to  get  a  good  look  at 
her,  she  took  me  back  thirty  year."  He 
wagged  his  old  head.  "There  ain't  nothin' 
like  'em  at  that  age — all  curls  an'  blushes 
an'  lookin'  at  you  sideways,  like  you  was 
57 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


tryin'  to  ketch  a  yearlin'  with  a  pan  o'  oats. 
.  .  .  She  was  purty.  I  never  seen  nothin' 
purtier  since  Robb's  mother."  His  eyes  set 
in  a  vacant  gaze  that  was  bright  with 
smiles.  "Seventeen!  She  was  seventeen." 

Letitia  whispered,  "And  when  she  told 
him  she  was  seventeen,  he  said,  'Letitia! 
Get  her  a  piece  o'  cake!'  That  's  all  he 
knows  about  girls!" 

She  began  to  clear  away  the  dishes  from 
the  table.  The  clatter  roused  Bigelow. 

"I  'd  no  idee  she  'd  growed  up  so  much. 
I  remembered  her  's  a  little  gal — 'bout  so 
high.  She  was  big  fer  seventeen — an'  she 
said  she  was  'nearly  seventeen'  the  way  me 
an'  you  'd  say  we  was  nearly  seventy.  It 
made  me  wish  I  was  young  ag'in  myself. 
.  .  .  She  was  purty. 

"I  begun  to  make  up  to  her  when  I  got 
her  settin'."  He  winked  knowingly.  "An' 
I  says,  'Miss  Andrews,'  I  says,  'bein'  a  gal, 
o'  course  you  've  thought  'bout  beaus  an' 
58 


There  ain't  nothin'  like  'em  at  that  age" 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


— an'  marriage?'  An'  she  laughs,  an'  picks 
at  the  flounce  on  her  muslin,  an'  says,  'No, 
o'  course  I  have  n't.'  But  I  could  see  she 
had.  Sure."  He  smiled  that  indescribable 
wide  smile  of  his,  tender-eyed  to  the  point 
of  pathos,  but  with  an  almost  grinning 
show  of  teeth.  "They  mostly  do — gals. 
A  boy,  now,  he  won't  know  what  's  the  mat 
ter  with  him  when  he  's  in  love  like  that ; 
an'  he  ain't  thinkin'  'bout  marriage  no 
more  'n  a  spring  lamb.  Eh?  The  gals  's 
got  more  sense.  I  could  see  she  had — the 
way  she  laughed  an'  looked  down  at  the 
flounce  she  was  fingerin'.  An'  I  says,  'Now 
I  tell  you,  I  don't  know  but  they  's  a 
steadyin'  influence  in  early  courtship,  Miss 
Andrews — a  steadyin'  influence.'  An'  she 
says,  'Do  you  think  young  gals  need 
steadyin'?'" 

Smiffen  chuckled.  "You  were  thinking 
of  the  boy?" 

He  nodded,  with  an  air  of  sober  mis- 
61 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


chief.  "An'  I  says,  'No,  no.  I  don't  mean 
it  that  way.  But  it  's  a  great  inducement 
fer  young  people,'  I  says.  'Gives  'em  some 
thing  to  work  fer,'  I  says.  'I  don't  know,' 
I  says,  'considerin'  all  the  temptations  in 
life — I  don't  know  but  what  early  mar 
riages  are  best,'  I  says,  'with  the  consent  o' 
the  parents,  o'  course.  An'  then,'  says  I, 
'it  keeps  'em  home.'  An'  she  says,  'D'  you 
think  many  gals  need  keepin'  home?'  ' 

Smiffen,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  senti 
mentally,  had  his  mouth  set  in  the  fatuous 
broad  grin  of  the  heart-tickled. 

"She  did  n't  know  what  I  was  at,  't  all. 
I  could  see.  She  was  thinkin'  'bout  her 
father  wantin'  her  to  marry  young  Well- 
man.  She  said  her  father  'd  said  a  gal 
should  n't  think  fer  herself  'bout  marriage 
—that  he  was  the  one  to  decide.  An'  o' 
course  I  told  her  I  could  n't  encourage  a 
gal  to  go  ag'in'  a  parent — but — Well,  you 
see,  I  wanted  to  find  out  how  she  felt  'bout 
62 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Robb,  so  I  ast  her  a  few  leadin'  questions. 
I  ast  her  what  she  knowed  'bout  housework, 
an'  she  'dmitted  she  'd  been  studyin'  the 
cook  book." 

At  this  picture  of  the  guileless  old  plotter 
and  the  unsuspecting  girl  Smiffen  exploded 
in  a  sudden  guffaw;  but  his  hilarity  was 
merely  the  nervous  over-expression  of  his 
almost  tearful  delight  in  Bigelow's  simplic 
ity — in  the  charming  simplicity  of  a  lova 
ble  old  man.  He  regained  control  of 
himself  as  suddenly,  and  coughed  behind 
his  hand. 

Bigelow  went  on,  smiling:  "An'  then 
after  a  little  maneuverin' — 'bout  it  bein'  a 
good  idee  fer  young  people  to  start  in  early 
an'  raise  a  fam'ly — I  up  an'  tells  her  that 
Robb  was  talkin'  'bout  leavin'  home — 'bout 
runnin'  away.  An'  I  seen  by  the  way  she 
looked  up  at  me,  scared  an'  took  sudden — 
I  suspicioned  how  it  was  with  her.  An'  I 
says,  'Hallie,'  I  says,  'I  don't  want  him  to 
63 


She  'dmitted  she  'd  been  studyin'  the  cook  book" 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


fall  in  love  with  the  wrong  kind  o'  gal.  An' 
that  's  why  I  sort  o'  begin  to  wish  he  'd 
steady  down  to  the  right  one — with  both 
the  parents'  consent — an'  stay  at  home,'  I 
says.  An'  when  I  said  'the  right  one'  I  let 
her  see  I  meant  her." 

Letitia  had  disappeared  into  the  kitchen 
with  her  dishes.  Bigelow  laid  aside  his 
horse  collar. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "that  brung  it  all  out— 
'bout  young  Wellman.  You  see,  she  had  n't 
any  mother  she  could  go  to — an'  o'  course 
her  father  was  ag'in'  her — an'  she  had  n't 
any  gal  friends,  'cause  her  father  would  n't 
let  her  have  none.  He  put  her  above  'em. 
An'  she  had  to  tell  some  one.  An'  so  she  up 
an'  tells  me.  'My  father,'  she  says,  'wants 
me  to  marry  a  man  I  can't  love.  It  's  Mis 
ter  Wellman,'  she  says.  An'  she  wants  to 
know  what  she  was  to  do. 

"I  did  n't  know  what  to  tell  her.  An'  I 
wanted  to  make  sure  'bout  Robb.  So  I  ast 
65 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


her  if  she  'd  ever  picked  out  any  young 
feller  'mongst  those  that  were  comin'  to 
her  home.  An'  she  said  she  could  n't — 
'cause  her  father  never  let  hardly  anybody 
come.  An'  then  she  says,  'I  ain't  very 
happy,'  she  says,  an'  purty  near  begins  to 
cry. 

"So  then  I  seen  I  'd  have  to  take  a  holt 
o'  the  bus'ness  by  the  bridle.  An'  I  says, 
'Look-a-here,  now,  Hallie,'  I  says,  4I  want 
to  show  you  something.'  An'  I  went  to 
Robb's  drawer  an'  got  out  the  letters,  an' 
tells  her  they  're  love  letters  he  'd  been 
writin'  to  some  gal  an'  never  sendin'  'em. 
An'  that  made  her  look  kind  o'  queer.  They 
were  in  the  envelopes  an'  all  addressed  an' 
all— but  I  did  n't  let  her  see  who  to.  'He 
must  'a'  thought  a  good  deal  'bout  some 
gal,'  I  says.  An'  then  when  I  leaned  down 
—so— to  find  the  book,  'To  Hallie  Andrews 
from  Robb,'  I  kind  o'  held  the  letters  be 
hind  me,  so  's  she  could  see  the  addresses  on 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


'em.  An'  when  I  straightened  up,  she  'd 
been  peekin'  at  'em,  an' — an' —  Eh?"  he 
crowed.  "Eh?" 

Smiffen  smacked  his  knee,  flattering  the 
old  man  with  his  pleased  interest  in  this  lit 
tle  idyll  of  country  courtship.  "Good 
enough!  Did  n't  that—" 

Bigelow  wiped  his  smile  on  the  back  of 
his  hand.  "She  begun  to  cry!" 

"To  cry?" 

"She  begun  to  cry.  You  see,  Robb  'd 
never  ast  her,  an'  she —  Well,  you  see,  she 
said  it  warn't  no  use.  Robb  'd  never  ast 
her,  but  she  'd  sort  o'  knowed,  she  said,  an' 
her  father  'd  knowed,  too.  'He  knows  ev'ry- 
thing,'  she  says.  An'  I  guess  that  was 
'bout  right.  Judge  Andrews  's  a  mighty 
knowin'  sort.  That  was  why  he  wanted  her 
to  marry  Wellman.  An'  she  jus'  put  her 
head  on  the  table  an'  cried,  an'  said  she  'd 
sooner  drown  herself  than  marry  Wellman 
— said  she  'd  sooner  die. 
68 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"That  's  the  way  when  you  're  young, 
eh?  As  if  there  warn't  goin'  to  be  plenty 
o'  time  to  die  in  when  there  warn't  any 
thing  else  to  be  done.  An'  she  sobbed  so 
she  shook  the  table." 

"You  had  your  hands  full,"  Smiffen  said. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  'd  wanted  to  call  in  Letitia 
to  help  when  she  'd  first  started  to  cry,  but 
she  said,  'Oh,  no,  don't,  Mister  Bigelow !' 
she  said.  'If  you  knew  how  I  was  enjoyin' 
this  visit!'" 

"What !"  Smiffen  cried.  "Well,  I  '11  be 
Say!" 

Bigelow  nodded  and  smiled  and  shook  his 
head.  "Poor  gal,"  he  said  pityingly,  "I 
guess  she  had  n't  had  much  kindness.  She 
thought  I  did  n't  understand.  'You  don't 
know  what  it  is,'  she  said.  'You  think 
'cause  I  'm  young  I  can't  suffer,'  she  says. 
'You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  love  some  one 
with  no  hope  an' — '  ' 

He  looked  hard  at  the  horse  collar.  "I 
70 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


knowed  that  feelin',"  he  said.  "I  had  it  once 
fer  Robb's  mother.  An'  when  she  chose  the 
other  feller,  I  'd  wanted  to  die  morn  'n  once 
myself.  .  .  .  That  's  why  all  my  feelin's 
had  gone  out  to  the  boy.  An'  why  I 
could  n't  part  with  him.  .  .  .  He  had  his 
mother's  eyes,  an'  his  mother's  smile."  His 
face  was  working,  tremulous  with  the  ap 
proach  of  tears. 

He  rose  abruptly,  to  put  away  the  collar. 
When  he  came  back,  he  said,  "Well,  I  tol' 
her  I  could  n't  give  neither  o'  them  no  en 
couragement.  Could  n't  encourage  a  gal 
to  go  ag'in'  her  father.  'But  if  I  was  a 
gal,'  I  says,  'an'  loved  a  boy,  I  'd  give  him 
a  chance  to  prove  himself,'  I  says,  'an'  then 
I  'd  stick  to  him  fer  life.'  An'— an'  then  I 
called  in  Robb." 

"What !" 

"Well,  I  could  n't  do  no  more  fer  him. 
I  seen  he  'd  have  to  do  the  rest  himself." 

"Did  she  run?" 

71 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"Hallie?  She  ain't  the  kind  that  runs! 
She  was  just  say  in'  'Please  don't  tell  him, 
Mister  Bigelow!' — when  he  comes  in,  an' 
stops  dead  when  he  seen  her.  An'  I  says, 
'Robb,'  I  says,  'I  wanted  you  to  know  we  'd 
got  comp'ny' — an'  'scused  myself  an' 
backed  out." 

The  door  bell  rang. 

He  added,  as  he  turned  to  the  door,  "I 
peeked  in  a  while  later,  an'  they  was  holdin' 
hands  an'  sweetheartin'.  Eh?"  He  winked. 
"Eh?" 


VI 


THE  door  bell  rang,  or  rather  it 
tinkled — the  timid,  faint  tinkle  of 
a  sleigh  bell  on  an  agitated  spring. 
Smiffen  looked  up  to  see  it  quivering  si 
lently,  as  if  in  speechless  excitement;  and 
he  smiled  at  it,  not  because  its  palsied  trem 
ors  amused  him,  but  because  he  was  full  of 
a  kindliness  that  was  ready  to  smile  upon 
anything.  He  gave  one  friendly  glance 
about  the  room  (with  an  air  of  reconsider 
ing  surroundings  upon  which  he  had  once 
rather  looked  down),  and  then  turned  again 
to  the  doorway  through  which  Bigelow  had 
gone  into  the  little  vestibule.  He  heard 
Bigelow's  astonished  "Why,  I  did  n't  know 
you  'd  come  back,  Miss  Andrews.  I  thought 
you  'd —  Come  in!  Come  in!" 
Miss  Andrews! 

73 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Smiffen  half  rose  from  his  seat  in  the 
suddenness  of  his  surprise,  his  pale  eyes  big 
with  pleasure,  his  face  even  flushed. 

He  had  imagined  her  a  country  girl  in 
gingham,  with  an  awkward  manner,  shy. 
The  young  woman  who  entered — in  fur 
cape  and  muff,  with  a  little  seal  cap  on  her 
fair  hair — had  all  the  self-possession  of  her 
youthful  sadness,  and  accepted  the  unex 
pected  presence  of  a  stranger  with  the  pre 
occupation,  the  indifference,  the  blank  eye 
of  grief.  She  was  more  than  girlislfly 
pretty;  there  was  a  woman's  character  in 
her  face,  and  though  her  features  had  a 
waxen  and  dainty  regularity,  they  had  evi 
dently  been  strengthened  by  suffering,  and 
they  showed  no  trace  of  tears.  She  was 
beautiful  with  that  beauty  of  young  trag 
edy  that  is  as  yet  unembittered  and  still 
sweetly  grave  with  hope. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  Indianap'lis," 
Bigelow  said. 

74 


'  She  was  more  than  girlishly  pretty 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


She  explained  that  she  had  come  back, 
on  a  visit  to  her  cousins,  for  the  holidays; 
and  the  "tie-up"  on  the  railroad  had  de 
layed  her.  There  had  been  no  one  at  the 
station  to  meet  her  train  when  it  came  in, 
and  she  had  left  her  trunk  in  the  baggage 
room  and  driven  as  far  as  Bigelow's  to  ask 
him  if  he  would  get  the  trunk  and  take  her 
"the  rest  of  the  way." 

"Are  they  lookin'  fer  you  t'-day?"  Bige- 
low  asked. 

She  admitted  that  they  were  not.  She 
had  written  to  them,  she  said,  but  she  had 
not  set  any  particular  date  for  her  arrival. 

"Well,  then,"  Bigelow  proposed  with 
ready  hospitality,  patting  her  on  the  shoul 
der,  "you  stay  here  t'-night,  Hallie,  an' 
I  '11  drive  y'  over  in  the  mornin'.  Them 
two  horses  've  earned  a  holiday — an' — 
Well,  this  's  a  kind  o'  lonely  house  these 
days,  Hallie.  Letitia  '11— 'Tish,"  he  called. 
"  'Tish." 

76 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


She  put  in,  suddenly,  "I  '11  find  her,  Mr. 
Bigelow";  and  drawing  a  crumpled  paper 
from  her  muff,  she  said :  "I  brought  a  letter 
—  from  him.  A  few  days  ago —  ...  I 
want  to  know  if  it  sounds  as  cruel  to  you 
as  it  does  to  me."  And  before  he  could 
reply,  she  thrust  it  into  his  hands  and  hur 
ried  from  the  room. 

"Well,"  Bigelow  muttered,  bewildered, 
«j ?> 

Smiffen  watched  her  disappear  through 
the  dining  room  into  the  kitchen.  "Say ! 
She  's  a  fine-looking  girl !"  he  told  Bigelow 
with  an  air  of  drawing  the  old  stage  driver's 
attention  to  a  fact  which  he  had  over 
looked. 

He  was  not  speaking  of  her  beauty  only. 
He  had  been  more  impressed  by  the  style 
and  evident  costliness  of  her  dress — a  girl 
ish  costume  of  the  early  eighties,  when 
tight-fitting  waists  accentuated  the  bustles 
and  flounces  of  elaborate  skirts.  He  felt 
77 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


that  Bigelow  did  not  appreciate  the  honor 
which  she  had  done  his  boy  by  condescend 
ing  to  this  courtship.  And  when  he  got  no 
reply  to  his  remark  to  Bigelow,  he  looked 
up  at  the  boy's  picture  again,  puzzled  to 
understand  what  there  could  be  in  the 
youngster  to  attract  such  a  girl. 

Bigelow  had  put  on  his  spectacles,  un 
folded  the  letter  and  addressed  himself  to 
the  reading  of  it — leaning  back  against  the 
table  as  he  sat,  and  holding  the  paper  high, 
to  catch  the  strong  light  from  a  window  be 
hind  him. 

He  had  evidently  become  quite  oblivious 
to  Smiffen's  presence  in  the  room ;  and  like 
all  persons  unaccustomed  to  reading,  he 
found  it  necessary  to  pronounce  his  words 
aloud,  in  a  reflective  low  voice,  as  he  read 
them,  one  by  one,  with  difficulty. 

"  'Dear  Miss  An-drews.'  '  He  gave  each 
syllable  deliberately,  with  the  tonelessness 
of  a  child  spelling  out  a  lesson.  "  'Your 
78 


The  pathos  of  that  sentence  choked  poor  Bigelow 
to  tears 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


let-ter  re-ceived,  and  .  .  .  al-though  I  re- 
ques-ted  you  to  dis-  .  .  .  dis-con-  .  .  . 
dis-con-tinue  our  cor-res-pon-dence,  ...  I 
take  this  oc-casion  to  wish  you  a  'Happy 
New  Year.'  .  .  .  Huh!  .  .  .  'You  say  your 
fath-er  wishes  .  .  .  you  ...  to  re-main 
in  Indian-apolis.  Well  it  ...  is  a  good 
plan.  .  .  .  Every-body  says  Indian-ap-olis 
is  a  fine  place  .  .  .  and  I  ...  am  sure 
you  will  en-joy  vis-it-ing  the  Grand  Op-era 
House  and  the  Glass  Works  which  .  .  . 
are  lo-cat-ed  there.  .  .  .  Please  ob-lige  me 
by  for-get-ting  me.'  ' 

The  boyish  simplicity  and  pathos  of  that 
sentence  choked  poor  Bigelow  with  tears. 
He  blinked  behind  his  glasses,  his  lips  trem 
bling;  and  Smiffen — who  had  been  leaning 
forward,  instinctively,  to  hear — drew  back 
and  looked  down  at  his  feet  and  did  not  look 


up  again. 

"  'Nothing  you  have  said  can 


me  re-new   our  en-gage-ment 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


sug-gest  for  .  .  .  my  life  is  en-ded.  .  .  . 
I  shall  love  you  always  .  .  .  but  I  shall  live 
a  bach-el-or's  life  like  my  dear  father  .  .  . 
who  is  heart-broken  by  my  conduct.  .  .  . 
You  will  forget  me  .  .  .  but  my  father 
nev-er  will  .  .  .  and  I  shall  help  him  out 
on  my  return  ...  by  driv-ing  stage  un 
til  he  gets  on  his  ...  feet  ag-ain.  .  .  . 
Then  I  am  going  to  take  off  my  coat  .  .  . 
and  go  to  work  .  .  .  and  make  him  proud 
of  me  yet.  I  know  ...  I  have  done  wrong 
.  .  .  and  am  willing  to  pay.' ' 

He  held  his  glasses  away  from  the  tears 
that  drenched  his  tanned  cheeks.  After  a 
pause  he  continued,  in  a  stifled  voice,  "  'I 
hope  you  will  take  the  first  chance  .  .  . 
and  mar-ry  be-cause  you  are  the  sort  .  .  . 
of  a  girl  that  needs  some  one  to  look  .  .  . 
after  her  and  though  I  nev-er  thought 
much  ...  of  the  fel-lows  you  liked  before 
you  met  me  .  .  .  per-haps  you  will  have 
bet-ter  judg-ment  now.  ...  I  have  de- 
82 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


cid-ed  .  .  .  this  cor-res-pon-dence  is  very 
bad  for  us  ...  both  .  .  .  bringing  up 
mem-ories  of  by-gone  days,  .  .  .  when  I 
was  young  and  happy  .  .  .  which  I  am  not 
now  .  .  .  and  never  will  be  ag-ain.' '  The 
letter  rustled.  Bigelow  was  wiping  his 
cheeks  with  his  bare  knuckles.  "  'With  best 
re-gards  for  your  con-tinued  health  .  .  . 
pros-perity  .  .  .  and  matri-monial  suc-cess 
...  I  remain  .  .  .  very  re-spec-fully 
yours  .  .  .  Robert  Bigelow.' ' 

He  took  off  his  glasses,  dropped  his 
hands  in  his  lap,  and  sat  staring  at  nothing 
until  the  tears  dried  in  his  eyes. 

He  had  no  smile  for  the  boyish  conceit, 
the  boyish  despair,  the  almost  incredible 
mixture  of  the  pathetic  and  the  ludicrous 
in  the  letter.  Smiffen  had,  but  he  did  not 
show  it.  He  was  trying  to  remember  where 
he  had  seen  that  name,  "Robert  Bigelow." 
It  had  been  the  name  of  a  school  fellow  of 
his,  and  he  had  seen  it  somewhere,  recently, 
S3 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


in  print.  He  could  not  remember.  He  did 
not  ask.  He  did  not  raise  his  head.  And 
Bigelow  and  he  were  sitting  so,  in  silence, 
when  the  girl  returned,  without  her  wraps, 
and  asked  Bigelow,  accusingly,  "Well?" 

She  ignored  Smiffen — too  absorbed  in 
her  own  emotion  to  be  aware  of  him — and  he 
rose  from  his  seat  and  went  to  a  far  window, 
where  he  turned  his  back  and  did  not  listen. 

"Well,"  Bigelow  said,  giving  her  the  let 
ter,  "it  ain't  newsy,  but  it  's  def'nite.  He 
writes  a  mighty  good  letter,  that  boy." 

She  put  aside  this  parental  impulse  to 
defend  the  boy.  She  sat  down  at  the  table 
with  a  characteristic  directness;  and  as  if 
fortified  by  her  interview  with  Letitia,  she 
said  in  a  low  voice  that  shook  with  a  tension 
of  girlish  resolve  and  abandon :  "I  '11  never 
give  him  up.  I  '11  never  let  him  go.  I  'd 
give  up  the  whole  world  first.  I  've  taken 
my  stand." 

Bigelow  shook  his  head  sadly.     "When 


•••' 


III 


• 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


we  're  in  love,  we  're  blind.  You  've  got 
youth,  but  it  don't  al'ays  stay  by  you.  We 
get  older — an'  harder — an'  wiser.  .  .  . 
Hallie,  my  boy  's  made  a  bad  mistake.  I 
would  n't  admit  that  to  nobody  but  you. 
An'  some  day,  when  you  're  older,  you 
might  regret  it.  The  boy  's  got  to  begin 
over  ag'in,  at  the  bottom  o'  the  ladder.  We 
know  what  was  in  his  heart,  but  the  world 
don't  know — an'  don't  want  to  know — an' 
it  's  many  's  the  hard  hour  an'  the  hard  day 
he  's  got  to  win  back  its  confidence  ag'in." 
He  put  away  his  spectacles.  "Go  back  to 
yer  father,  Hallie.  Live  on  the  sunny  side 
o'  life.  Go  back." 

"Mr.  Bigelow,"  she  pleaded,  "you  ought 
to  know  how  any  one  can  love  Robb.  I 
could  never  love  any  one  else." 

"Well,  o'  course,"  he  admitted,  "they  's 
no  denyin'  Robb  has  pers'nal  magnetism, 
but  it  might  be  's  well  fer  you  to  try  an' 
live  fer  a  while  without  love." 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


She  reached  out  to  lay  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  "My  father  tried  that.  .  .  .  I  've 
quarreled  with  him.  ...  I  can  never  go 
back  to  him.  .  .  .  I — I  want  to  be  here, 
near  you — waiting  for  Robb  when  he — " 

"Think  well !  It  '11  stand  ag'in'  him  all 
his  life!" 

"Do  you  advise  me  to  give  him  up?  Do 
you?  Really?  In  your  heart?" 

"No,"  he  confessed,  "I  das  n't  do  that. 
After  all,  he  might  be  the  one  man — an' 
you  might  be  missin'  life.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  . 
That  's  something  only  you  can  decide." 
He  went  around  the  table  to  her,  and  bent 
down  to  kiss  her.  "Hallie,"  he  said,  "I 
al'ays  liked  you."  She  burst  into  tears  — 
the  tears  of  a  rather  tragic  happiness — 
with  her  head  on  the  table.  "Tsh !  Tsh !" 
he  comforted  her.  "Don't  cry."  And  see 
ing  Smiffen  trying  politely  to  efface  him 
self  from  notice  beside  the  window,  he 
added,  "Here  's  Mister— Mister  Smiffen. 
86 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


You  have  n't  met  Mister  Smiffen.  He  's 
on  his  way  from  Jeffersonville.  He  's  been 
held  -up,  too.  .  .  .  That  's  a  good  gal." 

Any  one  hearing  Smiffen  tell  "funny 
stories"  in  the  smoking  car  or  the  "sample 
room"  would  have  thought  he  had  a  merely 
gallic  opinion  of  women,  and  never  looked 
at  any  except  with  the  predatory  eye  of  a 
lady-killer,  smiling  like  Mephistopheles  and 
Don  Juan.  But  when  Hallie  rose,  on  Bige- 
low's  introduction,  and  offered  her  hand 
blindly,  still  wiping  her  eyes,  Smiffen  took 
and  held  her  cold  fingers  with  as  decent  a 
feeling  of  compassion  as  any  one  could  wish. 
He  even  tried  to  comfort  her  with  a  fatherly 
squeeze  as  he  said,  "I  don't  know  what  's 
the  matter,  Miss  Andrews,  but  it  '11  come 
out  all  right,  I  guess.  It  '11  come  out  all 
right."  And  she  replied  to  the  reassuring 
pressure  of  his  handshake  with  an  apolo 
getic  smile — a  faint  but  trusting  smile  that 
accepted  him,  through  her  tears,  as  a  kindly 
87 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


stranger    who   had    seen   her   emotion    and 
sympathized. 

He  felt  somewhat  embarrassed.  He  need 
not  have  felt  so.  Her  simple  training  had 
not  taught  her  to  wear  one  face  to  strangers 
and  another  to  friends ;  and  she  had  no 
false  modesty  about  her  love  for  the  boy 
before  either  strangers  or  friends. 

Bigelow  had  been  explaining :  "I  've  been 
tellin'  him  'boutRobb — 'bout  his  inventions, 
an'  all  like  that.  I  wanted  he  should  know 
— in  case  he  ever  heerd  anything  ag'in'  him." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  withdrawing  her  hand 
reluctantly.  And  Smiffen  assured  her,  "I 
have  n't  heard  anything  but  good  things 
about  him  yet." 

The  accent  on  the  "yet"  did  not  exactly 
hint  that  he  wished  to  hear  more,  but  it 
conveyed  the  impression  that  if  they  wished 
to  tell  him  more,  they  would  find  him  a 
friendly  listener  whose  interest  was  already 
engaged  on  the  boy's  behalf. 
88 


"  And  he  said  he  did  n't  know  whether  a  girl  could 
understand— about  stocks  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


She  thanked  him  with  a  shy  regard,  and 
glanced  at  Bigelow.  He  was  evidently  con 
sidering  whether  it  would  not  be  better  for 
Smiffen  to  hear  the  whole  story  from  them 
rather  than  from  the  gossip  of  the  village. 

Bigelow  sat  down  thoughtfully,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  The  girl  took  a  seat  at  the 
table,  her  arms  on  the  marble  top,  gazing 
out  the  window.  Smiffen  withdrew  to  his 
chair  by  the  stove. 

After  an  interval  of  thought,  Bigelow 
said  unexpectedly,  "What  I  can't  make  out, 
Hallie,  is  how  the  Judge  knowed  'bout  Robb 
before  any  of  us." 

"Why,  you  see,  Mr.  Bigelow,"  she  fal 
tered,  "Robb  had  told  me  and  I—" 

"When  ?    When  did  he  tell  you  ?" 

She  confessed  faintly,  "That  afternoon." 

" Hallie!  .  .  .  Why  did  n't  you  come  an' 
tell  me?" 

"But  I  did  n't  understand!"  she  cried. 
"I  did  n't  understand  what  it  meant.  And 
91 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


lie  did  n't.  .  .  .  You  see,"  she  defended 
herself,  "the  first  words  he  said  when  you 
left  us  alone  here  that  afternoon — he  said 
in  case  he  left  town  suddenly,  he  wanted  me 
to  know  he  thought  there  'd  be  more  than 
one  successful  fellow  come  out  of  this  town. 
And  I  knew  he  was  referring  to  Mr.  Well- 
man,  and  I  thought  he  meant  that  one  of 
his  inventions  had  turned  out  well.  And  he 
said, 'No;  it  was  n't  that.'" 

She  hesitated,  glancing  up  at  the  bell 
above  the  door.  "He  showed  me  the  burg 
lar  alarm  to  ring  the  door  bell — and  about 
his  idea  for  putting  wooden  casters  on  the 
table.  But  he  said  it  was  n't  about  those." 

She  turned  to  the  old  man.  "And  then," 
she  said,  in  a  sudden  desperate  rush  of 
words,  "he  told  me  that  when  he  rode  over 
to  the  city  to  deposit  the  money  for  the 
G.  A.  R.,  he  met  a  man  that  he  used  to  know 
when  he  was  at  the  business  college,  and 
this  man  showed  him  how  he  could  make  five 
92 


He  showed  me  the  burglar  alarm  to  ring  the  door  bell 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


thousand  dollars  by  investing  the  one  thou 
sand  for  three  days.  And  that  was  what 
he  meant  by  saying  there  'd  be  more  than 
one  successful—  He  was  expecting  a  letter 
with  the  profits  any  minute." 

"An'  did  n't  you  know — "Bigelow  began. 

"I  did  n't  understand  at  all,"  she  cut  in, 
twisting  and  untwisting  her  handkerchief 
around  her  fingers.  "Even  after  he  figured 
it  out  on  a  page  of  his  note  book — so  many 
stocks  at  so  much  a  stock — to  show  me. 
And  he  said  he  did  n't  know  whether  a  girl 
could  understand — about  stocks." 

"But  did  n't  you  know  it  was  wrong  fer 
Robb-" 

"Why,  that  's  what  I  asked  him!— if  it 
was  n't  wrong  to  use  the  G.  A.  R.  money 
for  something  else  when  he  'd  been  given  it 
to  deposit  in  the  bank.  And  he  said  the 
sureness  of  it  made  it  all  right,  because 
he  'd  have  the  money  back,  and  the  profits, 
too,  that  night.  And  when  I  asked  him  if 
94 


"I  told  him  I  wished  he  would  n't  go  away,  because 
this  was  my  home" 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


you  knew,  he  said,  'No;  a  man  of  eighteen 
ought  to  depend  on  his  own  judgment' — 
and  he  was  so  sure  of  it  that  I  did  n't  really 
think.  I  just  thought  how  lovely  it  would 
be  when  he  had  the  money,  because  father — 
And  I  told  him  I  wished  he  would  n't  go 
away,  because  this  was  my  home.  And — 
and — "  She  put  her  face  in  her  hands. 
"He — he  kissed  me,"  she  sobbed,  "and  I 
was  so  happy,  I — " 

"There !"  Bigelow  cried,  rising  in  all  the 
majesty  of  an  old  man's  emotion.  "It  ain't 
guilt  that  's  punished  in  this  world!  It  's 
innocence !  It  ain't  the  boy  that  knows  he  's 
done  wrong.  It  's  the  boy  like — like  my 
Robb!" 

And  Smiffen,  staring  gloomily  at  the 
rag  carpet,  was  thinking  to  himself:  The 
same  old  story!  The  boy  steals,  and  runs 
away,  and  leaves  his  father  to  foot  the  bill. 
And  his  father  never  really  understands; 
and  his  sweetheart  refuses  to  lose  faith  in 
97 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


him  even  when  he  writes  to  her  and  throws 
her  over;  and  then,  when  the  awakening 
comes — 

He  looked  up,  compassionately,  at  Bige- 
low  trying  to  comfort  the  girl.  When  the 
awakening  should  come! 


VII 


HE  had  a  premonition  that  it  was 
going  to  come  to  them  very 
soon — that  they  would  continue 
discussing  the  incidents  of  the  theft,  and 
piecing  together  their  recollections  of  it, 
until  they  would  see  it  in  its  true  colors  and 
understand  the  whole  horrible  truth.  And 
he  watched  and  listened  in  the  nervous  ap 
prehension  of  a  spectator  at  a  murder  trial 
who  sees  the  evidence  of  the  prisoner's  guilt 
growing  before  the  jury. 

Bigelow,  when  he  had  quieted  the  girl, 
icturned  to  his  question  of  how  the  Judge 
discovered  what  Robert  had  done,  before 
any  one  else  knew  of  it.  And  she  explained : 
"When  Mr.  Wellman  took  me  over  to  the 
opening  of  the  hall  that  night  I — I  told 
99 


L 

3 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


him  I  could  never  marry  him.  And  I  told 
him  why.  And  of  course  he  did  n't  expect 
me  to  dance  with  him  after  that,  .  .  .  and 
I  tried  to  find  Robb.  He  had  n't  come  yet, 
'Aunt  Letitia'  said.  And  he  had  n't  told 
her  any  good  news  about  his  prospects.  .  .  . 
And  then  I  found  him  just  outside,  near  the 
door,  looking  in ;  and  I  could  see  something 
had  happened.  He  had  n't  his  Sons  of  Vet 
erans'  uniform  on.  And  when  I  asked  him 
what  was  the  matter,  he  said  he  'd  never 
wear  it  again,  and  he  was  leaving  town  that 
night,  and  he  'd  only  come  to  the  hall  to  tell 
me  good-by,  and  he  'd  lost  the  money,  and 
it  was  all  gone,  and  he  had  n't  any  of  it  left. 
And  then  he  showed  me  the  letter  from  the 
man,  and  he  kept  putting  his  hand  up  to 
his  forehead,  as  if  he  had  a  headache — and 
he  said  he  felt  sick. 

"I— told  him,"  she  wept,  "that  I  'd  asked 
him  whether  it  was  n't  wrong  to  use  that 
money — and  he  said  he  'd  been  so  sure  he  'd 
100 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


never  really  thought  about  it  being  wrong, 
maybe.  And  he  said  that  even  now  he  kept 
saying  to  himself,  'You  never  took  money 
that  did  n't  belong  to  you,'  but  he  had,  and 
he  'd  been  made  a  fool  of,  and  it  was  n't  his 
money,  and —  Oh,  everything  was  'up  the 
spout.'  " 

She  imitated  the  tone  and  the  hopeless 
gesture  of  his  "up  the  spout,"  and  there 
was  something  pathetically  funny  in  the 
way  she  did  it. 

"He  was  going  to  Wapahoe  City  on  the 
midnight  train — without  letting  you  know 
—and  going  to  leave  a  letter  saying  he 
would  pay  it  all  back.  He  said  he  knew 
some  one  in  Indianapolis  who  got  work 
there  at  eight  dollars  a  week,  and  in  ten 
years  he  'd  have  it  all  paid,  but  I  was  n't 
to  wait  for  him,  because  by  that  time  he  'd 
be  old — he  'd  be  twenty-eight — too  old  to 
start  life  over  again.  And — and  I  would  n't 
let  him  go. 

101 


in 


I 


I 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"I  could  n't,"  she  choked.     "I  could  n't." 

Bigelow  had  sunk  down  in  his  chair,  in  a 
hopeless  misery. 

She  went  on,  in  a  strained  and  tortured 
struggle  to  have  it  all  out,  "I  wanted  him 
to  let  you  help  him.  And  when  he  said  he 
could  n't  face  you,  I  told  him  I  had  money 
of  my  own,  and  I  'd  ask  father  for  it.  And 
he  said  he  could  n't  do  that .  He  could  n't 
take  money  from  a  girl,  or  he  'd  be  worse 
than  he  was.  And  I  told  him  he  could  pay 
me  back — but  he  would  n't  do  it.  And  I 
tried  to  persuade  him  to  wait  until  morn 
ing,  anyway.  And  then  some  people  were 
coming,  and  I  got  him  inside,  to  the  coat 
room,  and  I  made  him  promise  to  wait  there 
until  I  came  back,  and  then  I  ran  to  get 
father." 

Bigelow  groaned. 

"I  did  n't  tell  him,"  she  cried.  "I  did  n't. 
I  told  him  I  wanted  some  money — some  of 
my  own  that  mother  had  left  me — and  he 
said  he  'd  give  me  part  of  my  monthly 
102 


"  I  told  him  I  wanted  some  money  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


allowance  the  next  day — and  I  told  him  I 
wanted  quite  a  sum,  and  he  asked  what  I 
wanted  it  for,  and  I  said  I  could  n't  tell 
him,  except  that  I  wanted  to  do  some  good 
with  it,  and  it  was  my  money,  and  it  need  n't 
matter  to  him  what  I  did  with  it.  And  he 
said  I  wanted  it  for  some  one  else,  and  I 
told  him  no  one  had  asked  me  for  it — that 
I  had  been  asked  not  to  ask  for  it.  And 
he  said,  'Then  some  one  has  spoken  to  you 
about  it.'  And  I  told  him  I  had  n't  said 
that,  but  any  one  might  be  unfortunate  and 
lose  everything — and  I  begged  him,  and  told 
him  that  after  all  I  had  a  lot  more  money 
— that  I  only  needed  a  thousand  dollars. 
And  he  said,  'Is  that  all !'  And  I  said,  'No ; 
a  thousand  dollars  and  forty-seven  cents.' 
And  he  said,  'That  's  an  odd  sum.  One 
thousand  dollars  and  forty-seven  cents. 
Where  have  I  heard  that  sum  before !'  And 
then  all  at  once  he  said  I  wanted  it  for  'the 

$      sc 

104 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


She  broke  down  and  sobbed,  "I — I  told  him 
I  loved  Robb,  and  asked  him  to  help  us, 
b-but  it  was  no  use." 

Bigelow  shook  his  head.  "It  was  no 
use.  Ev'ry thing  played  against  us — ev'ry- 
thing!" 

"I  did  n't  think  he  'd  know,"  she  cried, 
"just  from  the  amount." 

"An'  he  would  n't,"  Bigelow  exonerated 
her.  "He  would  n't,  Hallie— if  it  had  n't 
been  fer  that  check  o'  his.  It  might  'a' 
been  days — an'  I  could  'a'  got  the  money 
put  back  in  the  bank — if  it  had  n't  been  fer 
his  check.  I  should  n't  'a'  took  it.  I 
should  n't  'a'  took  it." 

He  turned  to  Smiffen,  as  if  to  clear  the 
girl  by  confessing  his  own  mistake.  "He  'd 
come  in  here  that  afternoon,"  he  said,  "be 
fore  he  'd  found  out  anything.  You  was 
here,  was  n't  you,  Hallie?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied  faintly.     "I  hid  in  the 
dining  room  when  I  saw  him  coming." 
105 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"She  'd  been  here  with  Robb.  An'  when 
the  Judge  came  in,  I —  Well,  I  shook 
hands  with  him,  an'  made  Robb  shake  hands 
with  him,  'cause  I  thought  I  had  it  fixed 
fer  Robb  to  stay  home  an'  marry  her,  an' 
I  wanted  to  be  frien's  with  the  Judge.  An' 
he  said,  'Mr.  Bigelow,  you  tell  me  the  Post 
has  deposited  to  its  credit  one  thousan'  dol 
lars.'  An'  I  says,  'One  thousan'  dollars  an' 
forty-seven  cents,  in  the  Wapahoe  City 
Bank,'  I  says.  'Robert  deposited  it.  Rode 
over  on  his  bicycle,'  I  says.  An'  the  Judge 
says,  'A  balance  o'  four  hundred  dollars  is 
still  needed  to  complete  the  final  payment 
on  the  hall?'  he  says.  An'  Robert  said  that 
was  right — that  the  bank  book  was  in  his 
room.  An'  the  Judge  said  he  'd  decided  to 
give  us  this  balance  on  condition  that  the 
Post  paid  ev'ry  bill,  so  's  we  could  say  the 
hall  opened  that  night  free  o'  debt. 

"  'Well,  Judge,'  I  says,  'I  salute  you.  I 
salute  you,  Judge.  You  're  a  good  soldier, 
106 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


after  all.'  An'  he  set  down  at  the  table 
there  to  write  the  check.  An'  while  he  's 
writin'  it,  he  says,  'Wesley,'  he  says,  'I  take 
this  means  of  answerin'  those  who  opposed 
me.  I  want  you  to  announce  this  gift  pub 
licly  t'-night.  I  want  ev'ry  one  to  know 
that  you,  who  caused  my  defeat,  an'  the 
Post  members,  who  are  drivin'  me  from  the 
bench — '  An'  I  said,  'No,  Judge.  I  balk 
at  that.  I  ain't  out  eatin'  crow,'  I  says. 
An'  I  let  him  take  his  check  an'  go." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead 
wearily.  "Well,  what  was  the  use?  There 
was  the  boy  an'  Hallie.  I  could  n't  let  him 
go  away  mad.  I  called  him  back  an'  took 
it." 

"I  coaxed  you  to,"  Hallie  accused  her 
self.  "You  would  n't  have—" 

"Yes,  I  would,"  he  lied.  "Yes,  I  would. 
I  'd  'a'  done  it  anyway.  .  .  .  An'  besides," 
he  consoled  her,  "it  would  n't  'a'  made  no 
diff'rence  either  way.  An'  we  were  happy 
107 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


fer  the  rest  o'  the  day,  anyway,  were  n't 
we?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  thought  it  was  go 
ing  to  come  out  all  right.  I  thought  Robb 
was  going  to  get  his  five  thousand  dollars." 

Bigelow  pondered  sadly,  as  if  overcome 
in  his  old  age  by  a  despairing  sense  of  the 
vanity  of  human  virtue.  "It  's  the  inno 
cent,"  he  said.  "It  's  the  innocent — an'  the 
foolish.  I  ought  to  've  got  more  sense. 
An  ol'  man  like  me.  I  ought  to  've  learned 
more— more  craft.  I  did  n't  know  noth- 
in'." 

Smiffen,  weighed  down  with  his  universal 
gloom,  asked  throatily,  "What  did  he  do? 
Expose  the  boy?" 

"Expose  him !"  Bigelow  cried.  "Expose 
him !  'S  soon  's  Judge  Andrews  left  her 
that  night — after  he  'd  found  out  'bout 
Robb — he  got  Let'  Pettingill,  the  treasurer 
o'  the  Post — an'  him  drunk!  He  'd  come 
to  the  hall  drunk  that  night,  an'  I  took  his 
109 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


badge  off  him  an'  ordered  him  to  take  off 
his  uniform  an'  go  home —  An'  the  Judge 
got  him  when  he  was  drunk  an'  sore  ag'in' 
me,  an'  what  did  he  do,  d'  you  think?  Got 
him  to  make  a  charge  ag'in'  Robb !  Got 
him  to  ambush  my  boy — a  dead  comrade's 
son." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Here !"  he  said. 
"Here!  Here  I  was,  with  Cap  Bestor  an' 
Jim  Bishop  an'  the  boys — just  after  we  'd 
been  welcomin'  the  Boggsville  Post,  an'  was 
all  goin'  into  supper —  Here  I  was  just 
at  the  door  into  the  dancin',  when  I  seen 
Judge  Andrews  comin'  in.  An'  that  re 
minded  me  'bout  the  check  fer  four  hun 
dred  I  was  t'  announce.  An'  I  told  him  I 
was  goin'  to  make  the  announcement  right 
after  supper.  An'  he  says,  'Since  you 
speak  publicly  o'  this  matter,  Mister  Bige- 
low,'  he  says,  'I  want  to  say  that  when  I 
contributed  I  was  led  to  do  so  under  a  false 
impression.' 

110 


An   ordered  him  to  take  off  his  uniform  an   go  home— 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"Well,  I  could  n't  make  no  sense  out  o' 
that.  I  says,  'You  '11  have  to  speak  plainer, 
Judge,'  I  says.  An'  he  says,  'How  could  I 
complete  a  payment  when  I  don't  believe 
the  G.  A.  R.  had  any  funds  in  the  City 
Bank  t'-day?' " 

"That  looked  like  some  one  'd  been 
playin'  a  joke  on  him,  an'  I  laughed  at  him. 
So  did  Jim.  So  did  Cory.  'Well,'  I  says, 
't'-morrow  I  '11  show  you.' 

"  'I  doubt  it,'  he  says.  'I  doubt  it.  As 
Senior  Vice,'  he  says,  "I  '11  prove  t'-morrow 
mornin'  that  the  G.  A.  R.  money  that  young 
Robert  Bigelow  took  over  to  the  bank  is 
missin' !' 

"Well,  I  could  n't  make  nothin'  out  of  it, 
unless  the  bank  'd  been  robbed.  An'  then 
I  seen  by  the  look  in  his  eyes  that  he  meant 
something  ag'in'  Robb.  I  seen  it  in  the 
way  he  looked  at  me — as  much  's  to  say, 
'Take  that,  now.  That  's  fer  you.9  An' 
I  says,  'Judge  Andrews,'  I  says,  'you  can 


If  they  had  n't  'a'  held  me  back,  I  'd  'a' 
wrung  his  neck  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


attack  me.  You  al'ays  have,'  I  says,  'but 
that  boy —  You  keep  yer  hands  off  him! 
D'  you  hear!  He  's  my  boy!  Don't  you 
accuse  that  boy  !'  ' 

He  was  trembling  with  passion,  shaking 
a  venomous  forefinger  at  Smiffen.  "I  knew 
what  he  'd  got  ag'in'  Robb,  an'  I  told  him 
so.  'I  know  what  you  got  ag'in'  him,'  I 
says.  'I  know.'  An'  he  hollers,  'Then  if 
you  know,  you  keep  yer  boy  away  from  my 
house,  an'  away  from  me  an'  mine.'  He 
'dmitted  it.  He  'dmitted  it  in  them  very 
words.  Ev'ry  one  could  see.  I  told  'em 
it  was  'cause  Robb  loved  his  daughter.  So 
anything  to  injure  him.  Any  mean,  con- 
tem'tible —  An'  I  says,  'Boys,'  I  says,  'I 
propose  we  give  this  man  back  his  money. 
Give  him  back  his  God.'  'Yes,'  they  says. 
'Give  it  back  to  him.  We  can  raise  it  in 
some  more  respectable  way.'  An'  then  he 
out  with  it.  'As  you  will,'  he  says,  'but 
you  '11  find  that  yer  son  has  robbed—' 
115 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"By  God,  if  they  had  n't  'a'  held  me 
back,  I  'd  'a'  wrung  his  neck.  By — " 

"Wesley  !  Wes' !"  Letitia  cried,  running 
in  to  the  sound  of  his  angry  voice.  "Why, 
Wes'!  What—" 

"Go  inside  now,  Letitia,"  he  said,  con 
trolling  himself.  "I  feel  I  'm  goin'  to  use 
language." 

She  caught  his  arm.  "Nonsense,  Wes'," 
she  said.  "Stop  it.  The  boys  are  comin'. 
The  boys  are  comin'  up  the  road.  Listen." 

They  listened.  They  could  hear  a  chorus 
of  untuned  voices  singing  a  canteen  song. 

Hallie  rose  hastily,  and  fled  to  an  inner 
room  to  hide  her  tears.  Bigelow  said,  "All 
right,  'Tish.  I  was  jus'  tellin'  'bout  the 
Judge."  And  Smiffen  studied  his  knuckles 
and  tried  to  look  as  if  he  did  not  feel  that 
he  had  been  caught  peeping  at  the  family 
skeleton  through  a  keyhole. 

The    arrival    of    "the    boys"    saved   him 
from  an  uneasy  situation. 
116 


VIII 

THEY    were    as    ancient    a    lot    of 
"boys"  as  one  could  find  "between 
here     and     heaven" — as     Bigelow 
would  say. 

Jim  Bishop,  the  secretary  of  the  Post, 
who  was  town  constable  also,  and  clerk  of 
the  county  court — Jim  Bishop,  who  had 
been  courting  Letitia  with  an  antique  gal 
lantry  for  twenty  years — Jim  Bishop  came 
stumping  in  first,  in  his  faded  army  over 
coat,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  bald  headed,  cry 
ing  "Happy  New- Year,  Wes' !"  and  "Happy 
New- Year,  "Titia!"  as  sprightly,  in  spite 
of  his  artificial  leg,  as  a  bridegroom  of 
fifty,  his  plump  face  creased  in  smiles. 

Behind    him    there   puffed   in    a   perfect 
whale  of  a  man — Comrade  Cory  Kilbert — 
117 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


who  had  nearly  starved  to  death  in  a  South 
ern  prison  during  the  war,  and  who  had 
been  overeating  four  times  a  day  every  day 
since.  It  was  his  complaint  that  he  had 
not  drawn  a  full  breath  "sence  Antietam" ; 
and  he  gave  his  "Happy  New-Year"  in  the 
brief  gasp  of  a  man  who  realizes  that  his 
every  breath  is  numbered.  He  was  so  cor 
pulent  that  his  round  face  looked  like  the 
surface  of  a  firkin  of  lard  that  had  "set" 
in  the  dimples  and  crinkles  and  smooth 
puckers  of  a  white  fat. 

He  was  followed  by  Captain  Bestor,  a 
lawyer  who  wore  a  frock  coat  on  all  occa 
sions,  and  had  one  on  now  under  his  army 
cloak.  He  was  gray,  with  a  martial  gray 
mustache.  He  was  carrying  a  canteen, 
from  which  they  had  all  been  drinking  to 
the  New- Year ;  and  his  accustomed  dignity 
had  been  deepened  thereby  to  the  platform 
manner  of  a  public  orator.  He  was  most 
portentously  sober,  and  he  gave  the  sea- 
119 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


son's  greetings  as  solemnly  as  if  it  were  a 
part  of  the  ritual  of  some  religious  cere 
mony. 

They  had  brought  with  them  an  old  blind 
veteran  named  Hickman,  an  inmate  of  the 
soldiers'  home  at  Knightstown ;  and  they 
introduced  him  to  Bigelow  as  "Hickman  of 
the  battle  of  Cedar  Creek,  the  fellow  who 
stole  the  cow  an'  saved  our  lives."  And 
Bigelow — shaking  hands  with  one,  clapping 
another  on  the  back,  and  raising  his  voice 
to  a  shout  to  wish  the  deaf  Hickman  the 
compliments  of  the  day — received  them 
with  all  the  eager  joviality  of  his  simple 
soul,  and  made  them  "acquainted"  with  the 
smiling  Smiffen  as  one  might  present  a 
stranger  to  the  boon  companions  of  a  club. 
"Boys!  Boys!"  he  cried.  "It  does  me 
good  to  see  you!  Hickman,  you  take  me 
back  twenty  year !  How  are  you,  Hick 
man?  I  say  HOW  ARE  YOU?"  And 
Hickman,  smiling  blankly  before  him,  lean- 
ISO 


He  was  most  portentously  sober" 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


ing  on  his  stick  with  one  hand,  the  other 
behind  his  ear,  answered  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  come  across  those  twenty  years, 
like  a  distant  halloo,  small  and  faint.  "Oh, 
.  .  .  prut-ty  .  .  .  well.  Prut-ty  .  .  .  well." 

Letitia  had  to  find  chairs  for  them  all, 
and  then  bring  them  each  a  glass  of  "cherry 
bounce";  and  when  they  had  drunk  her 
health,  primly,  in  that  precious  beverage, 
Bigelow  called  to  her  to  bring  the  old 
"volunteer  flag"  which  she  had  been  mend 
ing.  "Goin'  to  show  you  the  ol'  flag,"  he 
shouted  at  Hickman.  "Want  you  to  tech 
her.  ...  It  's  ready — ain't  it,  'Tish — to 
go  down  to  the  hall?  You  can  take  it 
along,  Cap." 

They  were  taking  Hickman  to  the  hall; 
they  could  take  the  flag  with  them. 

They  stood,  when  Letitia  appeared  with 
the  striped  bundle  in  her  arms.     "Handle 
her  gentle,  'Tish,"  Bigelow  cautioned  her. 
"She  's  gettin'  worn." 
122 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


She  spread  it  on  the  table  top,  and  they 
saluted  it  mutely.  Bigelow  put  the  hem 
of  it  into  Hickman's  hands.  The  blind  man 
said,  in  his  far-away  voice,  "The  ol' 
Indianny  Sixteenth  volunteer!  Well,  well. 
She  's  good  to  the  touch" ;  and  bending  his 
shaking  old  spine  before  it,  he  kissed  it  like 
an  altar  cloth. 

"Robb's  mother  made  it,"  Bigelow  ex 
plained  over  his  shoulder  to  Smiffen,  "an' 
his  father  carried  it.  Color-Sergeant  Bal- 
lard— killed  at  Five  Forks." 

"Marched  right  ahead  o'  me,"  Jim 
Bishop  added  proudly. 

Bigelow  cried  in  Hickman's  ear,  "D5  you 
remember  the  color-sergeant — Phil  Bal- 
lard?" 

"Ah!"  Hickman  wagged  his  sparse 
beard.  "  'Member  the  day  we  found  him — 
at  Five  Forks — near  dawn?"  His  blind 
eyes  seemed  fixed  on  that  dead  past. 

"Yes.     Yes,"  Bigelow  said.     "A-steppin' 


; 


"  The  ol*  Indianny  Sixteenth  volunteer  ! 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


over  bodies  like  cobblestones.  Found  him 
layin'  with  his  head  on  his  arms — an'  in 
his  pocket  a  letter  from  Robb's  mother — 
sayin'  she  was  waitin'  with  the  baby  fer 
him— Robb." 

They  nodded.     "Yes.    Yes.     That  's  it." 

"Spoke  to  him  purty  sharp,  rec'llect?" 
Bigelow  said,  trying  to  smile  at  him 
self  now  for  not  having  understood  that  the 
man  was  dead.  "Reminded  him  he  had  a 
boy  at  home.  Begged  him  to  get  up.  .  .  . 
Well,  well.  An'  to  think  it  all  happened 
so  long  ago !  An'  him  layin'  there  dead,  in 
his  blood-stained  unyf orm !" 

He  turned  to  Smiffen  with  a  determined 
cheerfulness.  "Wish  you  'd  been  over  to 
the  hall  the  openin'  night,"  he  said. 

That  set  them  all  recalling  the  glories 
of  that  famous  night ;  and  they  chaffed  Jim 
Bishop  on  his  dancing  and  Captain  Bestor 
on  his  speech.  ["On  this  memorable  and 
momentous  occasion — which  marks  the  open- 
125 


"  On  this  memorable  and  momentous  occasion ' 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


ing  of  this  imposing  edifice — which  now 
lifts  its  stately  cupola  into  the  cerulean 
sky,"  etc.  "An5  there  warn't  no  cupola," 
Cory  Kilbert  explained  to  Smiffen.  "An' 
there  warn't  no  such  sky,"  said  Bigelow.] 
They  even  tried  to  make  Letitia  recite  again 
the  verses  which  she  had  composed  in  the 
Post-Commander's  honor,  and  delivered  her 
self  that  evening  in  the  costume  of  Colum 
bia,  with  a  liberty  cap  on  her  thin  locks. 

["Welcome  to  this  festal  hall 

Soldiers  marching  to  and  fro! 
Welcome  townsfolks,  one  and  all, 
And  Post-Commander  Bigelow"  — 

and  so  forth,  through  half  a  dozen  stanzas 
of  which  every  last  line  ended  in  "Post- 
Commander  Bigelow!"] 

"Well,"  Captain  Bestor  said,  "there  may 
be  finer  halls,  but—" 

"But    there    ain't,"    said    Kilbert;    and 
Bestor  brought  them  to  their  feet  again  to 
drink  to  the  luck  of  the  hall. 
127 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"Friends  and  comrades,"  he  said  orator- 
ically,  "it  is  now  my  privilege  to  say  that 
it  is  the  unanimous  opinion  of  this  Post 
that  our  new  hall  needs  the  honored  pres 
ence  of  one  who  has  not  been  seen  there 
since  our  opening  night,  to  the  success  of 
which  he  so  largely  contributed,  our  ex- 
Post-Commander,  Mr.  Wesley  Bigelow.  It 
is  my  privilege  to  say,  on  behalf  of  the 
comrades  of  this  Post — ' 

"Boys.  Boys,"  Bigelow  cut  in  modestly. 
"I  appreciate —  I — I  can't  thank  you. 
But — but —  Well,  mebbe  when  Robb  comes 
back.  I — I  can't  face  the  place  yet." 

"Well,  now  that  Pettingill  's  been  ex 
pelled,"  Bishop  argued,  "an'  the  Judge  's 
left  town,  there  's  no  one  there  but  what 
took  the  boy's  part !" 

"It  ain't  that,"  Bigelow  said.  "You 
don't  know.  You  're  all  right,  boys.  I  can 
never  thank  y'  enough  fer  what  you  did  fer 
128 


"Soldiers  marching  to  and  fro!" 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Robb.     G.  A.  R.  blood  's  thicker  'n  water. 
...  It  ain't  that" 

He  began  to  shake  hands  with  them  all, 
to  express  the  gratitude  that  choked  him; 
and  they  accepted  the  action  as  a  signal  to 
go.  They  took  Smiffen  with  them,  to  show 
him  the  hall ;  and  when  they  had  all  trooped 
out  (Captain  Bestor  whispering  confiden 
tially  that  he  would  be  back,  that  he  had 
something  to  say  for  Bigelow's  private 
ear),  the  old  stage  driver  sat  down  and 
sighed  and  shook  his  head. 


IX 


I 


T  ain't  that,"  he  said  to  himself.     "It 
ain't  that." 

It  was  something  that  had  happened 
between  the  boy  and  him,,  on  the  night  of 
the  opening  of  the  new  hall — something 
that  had  made  the  hall  such  a  place  of 
sickening  memories  to  him  that  he  could 
not  face  it — something  that  kept  coming 
back  to  the  eye  of  memory  with  a  hypnotic 
vividness,  in  moments  of  solitude,  to  torture 
him  with  all  the  miseries  of  shame  and  re 
morse. 

It  came  back  upon  him  now;  and  sunken 
in  his  chair  he  stared  at  it,  pale,  sick  at 
heart,  like  a  man  haunted.  He  went  through 
it  all  again,  incident  by  incident.  He  wiped 
131 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


his  forehead.  He  shifted  in  his  chair  and 
half  groaned  to  himself. 

"Mary's  boy!"  he  whispered.  "Mary's 
boy!" 

For  it  was  on  that  night  of  the  opening 
of  the  hall,  in  the  "Commandery  Room" — 
with  its  flags  and  bunting,  its  lemonade 
stand  and  its  oil  lamps  in  brackets,  its 
memorial  tablet  on  the  wall  and  its  rack  of 
muskets  in  the  corner — it  was  there  that 
Judge  Andrews  had  made  his  accusation 
against  the  unfortunate  Robert,  just  at 
the  door  that  opened  into  the  dance-room ; 
and  Bigelow,  dragging  the  men  who  tried 
to  hold  him,  had  backed  the  Judge  across 
the  room  towards  the  entrance,  shouting: 
"You  're  lyin'!  He  's  lyin',  boys!  He  's 
lyin'!" — his  neck  outstretched,  his  teeth 
bared,  his  face  purple  with  anger — furious 
enough  to  have  bitten  if  the  men  clinging  to 
him  had  let  him  get  near  enough  to  the 
Judge  to  bite. 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"Don't  be  apprehensive,  gentlemen,"  the 
Judge  had  said,  though  he  was  pale.  "I  'm 
a  cool  man  on  the  battlefield  as  well  as — " 

"Yes,"  Bigelow  yelled.  "You  're  so  cool 
on  the  battlefield  you  just  shiver.  .  .  .  No! 
No !"  he  told  the  men  who  tried  to  coax  him 
away.  "The  good  name  of  my  boy  's  been 
questioned,  an'  I  never  side-flank  trouble. 
He  's  got  my  blood  a-singin',  an'  he  '11  have 
to  eat  his  crow !" 

They  hurried  the  women  out  of  the  room, 
and  he  tore  himself  free  from  the  men  who 
tried  to  hold  him.  "Close  that  door!"  he 
ordered.  "Now !"  he  challenged  the  Judge. 
"Now.  Come  on !" 

The  Judge  said:  "Call  young  Bigelow." 
And  going  himself  to  the  door  of  an  outer 
room,  he  summoned  Pettingill. 

"Call  my  boy!"  Bigelow  cried,  and  set 
tling  his  coat  on  his  shoulders — it  had  been 
almost  dragged  from  his  back — he  con 
fronted,  sternly,  in  his  old  uniform,  the 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


staggering  Quartermaster  whom  Andrews 
brought  up  to  support  his  case. 

"As  Senior  Vice,"  the  Judge  said,  "I 
have  advised  Pettingill  to  press  this 
charge."  And  Pettingill,  with  the  butt  of 
a  bar-room  cigar  in  the  snarling  corner  of 
his  mouth,  mumbled  defiantly:  "Feel  the 
mor'l  respons'bility  bein'  treasur'  one  thou- 
san'  dollars  'n  forty-sev'  cents." 

Bigelow  passed  them  over  with  a  con 
temptuous  glance,  and  turned  to  the  door 
through  which  he  expected  to  see  Robert 
appear. 

Kilbert  undertook  the  boy's  defence.  "I 
propose  a  vote  o' confidence  in  Wes'  Bigelow's 
boy,"  he  said,  "before  he  opens  his  mouth." 

"Yes.     Yes,"  the  others  seconded  him. 

"Thanks,  comrades,"  Bigelow  replied, 
with  a  ring  in  his  voice,  "but  mine  's  a  boy 
can  stan'  up  an'  face  anybody.  Anybody 
an'  ev'rybody!  He  ain't  needin'  no  de- 
fendin'.  Look  at  him.  Come  here,  Robb." 
134 


rnrrj 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Robert  had  entered  with  Captain  Bestor. 
He  was  a  shabby  lad  in  snuff-colored 
clothes  which  he  had  outgrown ;  and  he  was 
pale  and  frightened,  though  he  did  not 
know  yet  what  was  wanted  of  him. 

Bigelow  went  to  him  and  put  an  arm 
about  his  shoulders  and  led  him  forward. 

"Robert,"  he  said,  when  they  were  facing 
Andrews,  with  the  men  grouped  around 
them,  "the  Judge  says  that  you — "  He 
swallowed  and  tried  to  smile  apologetically 
at  the  circle.  "Well,  I  'm  ashamed  to  tell 
it." 

Bestor  offered,  in  his  best  professional 
manner:  "Perhaps  I— 

Bigelow  waved  him  off,  and  patted  Rob 
ert  on  the  shoulder  to  reassure  him.  The 
boy  was  already  hanging  his  head.  "My 
boy,"  he  said,  "stan'  up  an'  face  Judge  An 
drews  an'  answer.  You  deposited  the  Post 
funds  in  the  City  Bank." 

Robert  took  one  scared  look  at  the  stern 
135 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


accusation  of  the  Judge's  scowl,  and  said: 
"I— Dad— " 

"Speak  so  ev'rybody  can  hear  you," 
Bigelow  ordered  confidently. 

"Speak  out,  my  boy,"  Captain  Bestor 
helped. 

But  the  unhappy  boy,  shrinking  from  a 
confession  before  all  these  strangers,  try 
ing  vainly  to  hide  his  guilty  face  from  them 
and  make  his  voice  reach  his  father  only, 
gulped  "Dad" — and  stuck  on  the  word. 

"Young  man !"  the  Judge  said  sternly. 

"Hoi'  on!"  Bigelow  interfered.  He 
caught  the  boy  by  both  shoulders  and 
shook  him  affectionately,  turning  himself 
at  the  same  time  to  face  the  circle  of  eyes 
before  which  Robert  quailed.  "I  ought  n't 
to  've  asked  him  so  sudden.  Got  him 
frightened  most  to  death.  He  can't  stan' 
by  an'  hear  his  integrity  questioned.  He  's 
a  sensitive  boy." 

He  was  fond  enough  to  believe  what  he 
136 


Post-Commander  Bigelow 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


said ;  and  the  others  tried  to  look  as  if  they 
believed  him — all  except  the  Judge  and  Pet- 
tingill. 

"Did  you,  or  did  you  not,"  the  Judge 
began.  And  Pettingill  threatened  drunk- 
enly:  "My  duty  to  press  a  charge  ag'in' 
him  shortage — an'  I  '11  do  it!" 

Bigelow  upheld  the  boy  with  an  arm 
about  him,  patting  him  and  smiling  a  deter 
mined  reassurance.  "You  don't  have  to  an 
swer  till  you  're  ready,  Robert.  No  one 
here  doubts  you  at  all.  Take  yer  own 
time,  my  boy." 

But  the  boy,  his  arms  hanging  limp,  his 
knees  visibly  weakening  under  him,  his  chin 
on  his  chest,  could  not  raise  his  eyes  from 
his  feet;  and  the  Judge  said  impatiently: 
"Come,  come.  I  simply  want  a  yes  or  no." 

"You  don't  have  to  answer  till  you  're 
ready,"  Bigelow  counseled  him.  "Just 
speak  up  an'  tell  the  Judge." 

And  at  last  the  boy  faltered,  in  a  voice 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


that  trembled  and  cringed  before  them  all: 
"I  can't,  Dad.  I  did  n't  put  it  in  the  bank. 
I-" 

In  the  amazed  silence  that  ensued,  Bige- 
low  stood  back  with  his  mouth  open,  speech 
less.  The  comrades  looked  at  one  another. 
The  Judge  smiled. 

"Well,"  Bigelow  said  hoarsely,  "if  you  've 
been  disobey  in'  orders — leavin'  funds  lay  in' 
aroun'  the  house — " 

"A  bad  business,  I  'm  afraid,"  the  Judge 
interposed,  in  a  tone  of  cold  finality. 

"Well,  /  9m  responsible,"  Bigelow  flared 
up.  "/  *m  responsible!"  And  the  Judge 
turned  his  back — ignoring  him — and  took 
Pettingill  by  the  elbow,  and  stalked  off, 
righteous  and  vindicated. 

"Boys,  go  inside,"  Bigelow  turned  to  the 
others.  "I  '11  have  better  news  fer  you 
later." 

They  offered,  if  there  was  "anything" 
they  could  do — 

140 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"No.  No,"  he  assured  them,  struggling 
to  keep  a  brave  face.  "There  's  nothin' 
really  wrong,  I  guess." 

But  when  they  had  all  gone  into  the 
dancing-room,  and  shut  out  the  sound  of 
the  music  as  they  closed  the  door  behind 
them,  he  dropped  his  faltering  smile,  and 
turned  to  Robb  the  worried  and  miserable 
face  of  an  old  man  disgraced.  His  shoul 
ders  drooped  dejectedly:  he  wiped  his  face 
in  his  handkerchief;  and  seeing  a  kitchen 
chair  under  the  balcony  near  where  Robert 
stood,  abandoned  to  his  guilt,  he  dragged 
himself  wearily  to  the  seat  and  called  the 
boy  over  to  him. 

"Robert,"  he  said  plaintively,  "if  you  've 
been  careless  an'  lost  this  money  takin'  it 
over,  why  did  n't  you  come  to  me  like  a 
man  an'  say  so?  'T  ain't  as  though  you  'd 
did  any  delib'rate  wrong.  Then  I  could  'a' 
found  some  way  to  help  you  out.  Now  I 
ain't  got  time  to  turn  round." 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


The  boy  hung  his  head,  his  shoulders  stiff 
with  the  effort  to  keep  down  the  sobs  that 
gathered  against  his  heart,  looking  down 
at  the  hat  which  he  kept  turning  and  turn 
ing  in  his  hands. 

"Now.     What  's  happened?" 

But  overcome  by  a  realization  of  his 
irretrievable  guilt  and  ruin,  unable  to  con 
fess  the  hopelessness  of  his  situation  to  his 
father,  Robert  could  only  answer  in  the  flat 
voice  of  despair :  "It  would  n't  do  any  good 
to  tell  you  now,  Dad." 

"Robert!"  Bigelow  said  huskily.  "We 
got  to  keep  cool-headed  an'  find  some  way 
to  recoverin'  it.  ...  You  lost  it  takin'  it 
over.  That  's  it;  ain't  it?" 

The  boy  gasped:  "It  's  gone." 

"Gone  where  't  can't  be  got  back?" 

"Yes." 

At  that  strained  voice  of  hopelessness, 
Bigelow  licked  his  dry  lips,  and  wiped  the 
back  of  his  neck,  and  struggled  with  his 


"  Who  's  got  it  ?     Answer  me  ! 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


anger — and  then  cried:  "Who  're  you 
shieldin'?  Some  scamp  's  led  you  on. 
Who  is  it?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head,  too  weak  to  do 
more. 

"Who  's  got  it  ?    Answer  me !" 

He  could  not  answer;  he  was  struggling 
against  a  sob  that  stuck  in  his  throat, 
strangling  him. 

"An-swer  me !"  Bigelow  screamed  in  the 
high  cracked  voice  of  impotent  old  rage  and 
grief. 

The  boy  gulped,  trembling. 

"Answer  me,"  he  gasped,  and  beat  on 
his  knee  with  his  fist,  his  face  convulsed 
with  wrath  and  tears.  And  in  a  low  voice, 
at  the  end  of  his  self-control:  "Answer — " 

"I — I  can't,"  he  sobbed,  unable  to  con 
fess  himself  alone  in  his  guilt.  "I  can't." 

"You  will,"  Bigelow  cried,  "fer  I  '11 
make  you.  Whoever  's  to  blame  has  got  to 
take  his  punishment.  You  answer  me." 

"Oh,  Dad!"  the  boy  wept.  "I  can't."  He 
145 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


dropped  his  hat  and  burst  into  tears,  wip 
ing  his  eyes  frantically  with  his  hands  and 
with  his  bony  wrists  that  protruded  from 
the  sleeves  of  his  jacket — which  he  had  out 
grown.  His  father,  his  anger  gone  on  the 
instant,  rose  to  thrust  the  handkerchief 
into  his  hands.  "Here,"  he  said.  "Here, 
now.  You  tell  me  who  it  is." 

He  sat  down,  drawing  the  boy  between 
his  knees.  "It  's  a  sharper.  I  can  see 
that."  He  shook  Robert  affectionately  by 
the  elbows.  "Now,  like  a  good  boy,"  he 
wheedled.  "You  're  shieldin'  some  one. 
Now  .  .  .  now  bell  me.  Like  a  good  boy. 
.  .  .  Now.  Now,  like  a  good  boy." 

And  Robert,  his  face  hidden  in  the  hand 
kerchief — unable  to  realize  anything  but 
that  he  had  taken  the  money  to  speculate 
with — sobbed:  "Oh,  Dad.  Can't  you  see  it 
could  n't  be  any  one  but  me." 

"You  ain't  meanin' — Oh  no  — '!  He 
shook  his  head.  "A  boy's  whole  nature  can't 
146 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


change  like  that."  He  looked  up  piteously 
into  the  face  of  the  miserable  youth. 
"Look  at  me." 

Robert  tried  to  look  at  him,  but  could 
not;  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  hand 
kerchief  which  he  was  pulling  and  tugging 
at  nervously,  he  pleaded:  "I  did  n't  mean 
to  take  it  for  good,  Dad.  I  wanted  to  make 
some  money — and  I  used  it." 

Bigelow  sank  down  slowly  in  his  chair, 
shrinking  in  upon  himself  as  if  all  his  pride, 
all  his  strength — as  if  his  very  breath — 
were  leaving  him.  "You  used  it !"  He  put 
his  hands  up  to  his  temples.  "God 
A'mighty!"  His  voice  was  scarcely  more 
than  a  dry  rustle  in  his  throat.  "Mary  's 
boy!"  And  then,  rising  unsteadily,  with 
his  under  jaw  shaking  weakly  as  he  stood 
to  face  the  terrible  truth,  he  quavered: 
M-mary's  boy!  .  .  .  an'  yer  father's  name 
up  there  on  that  tablet.  You  stole  from 
the  comrades  of  my — You — You  're  a — " 
147 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"No,  no !"  the  boy  cried.  "  I  'm  not!  I 
meant  to  pay  it  back!" 

But  Bigelow  beat  down  his  protests  with 
a  violent:  "You  're  a  thief!  A  common 
thief!  There  ain't  a  man  in  this  hall  but  's 
got  the  right  to  have  you  locked  up.  Judge 
Andrews  's  got  the  right  to  sentence  you 
like  a  dog.  An'  you  not  able  to  hold  up 
yer  head." 

The  boy  had  huddled  himself  up  under 
this  attack,  shivering  horribly.  Bigelow 
caught  him  by  the  shoulders  and  swung 
him  round.  "Come  here !  How  'd  you  come 
to  do  it?" 

"I— I  don't  know.     I  just  did  it." 

Bigelow  dropped  his  hand.  The  tears 
flooded  his  old  eyes  and  trickled  down  to 
the  corners  of  his  mouth — his  distorted 
mouth  with  its  protruding  under  jaw  that 
shook  with  a  hysteria  of  grief  and  shame. 
"My — my  boy!"  he  said,  heart-broken. 
"My  wonderful  boy !  'S  turned  out  a  thief. 
148 


44  Take  that,  you— 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


.  .  .  Have  n't  I  been  good  to  you? 
Have  n't  I,  Robb?  Why  did  n't  you  come 
an'  ask  me  fer  what  you  wanted?  You 
did  n't  have  to  do  this.  All  I  got — an'  all 
I  could  raise — 't  ain't  much,  but  it  's 
yourn."  He  stretched  out  his  hands. 
"Ever  since  you  was  put  in  my  arms,  I  've 
done  the  best  I  could  fer  you.  I — " 

"Dad !"  the  boy  broke  down  at  the  sound 
of  his  father's  sobs.  "Don't!  Don't!  I 
can  stand  anything  but  that."  He  dropped 
into  the  chair  and  put  his  head  on  his  arms. 
"Oh,  for  God's  sake— " 

Bigelow  looked  down  at  him.  "Well, 
I  've  been  a  bungler !"  he  cried.  "An  ol' 
bungler !  Ev'rybody  was  right.  I  never 
learnt  you  right  from  wrong.  An'  here  you 
are  now — where  music  an'  dancin'  's  goin' 
on — ashamed  to  face  an  honest  comrade." 
He  drew  himself  up.  "Well,  I  've  ruined 
you  with  kindness.  Now—  He  clenched 
his  teeth.  "Get  up,"  he  said  hoarsely. 
151 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Robert  did  not  move. 

"Get  up!"  he  snarled,  through  his  teeth. 
"Get  up  when  I  tell  you!"  And  clutching 
the  boy  by  the  coat  collar  he  dragged  him 
to  his  feet. 

"T-take  off  yer  coat.     Take  it  off!" 

The  boy  drew  the  coat  from  his  shoulders 
and  let  it  slide  from  his  arms  to  the  floor. 

Bigelow  pointed  to  a  stack  of  carriage 
whips,  tagged,  in  a  barrel  by  the  door, 
where  their  owners  had  left  them  when  they 
had  put  up  their  horses  and  come  into  the 
hall.  "Bring  me  one  o'  those  whips !"  His 
outstretched  arm  trembled  with  an  old 
man's  passion.  "Get  it !" 

The  boy  got  it. 

"You  little— D'  you  know  what  I  'm 
goin'  to  do?"  He  snatched  the  whip  and 
shook  it.  "I  'm  g-goin'  to  flog  you,"  he 
shouted,  "till  I  hain't  got  strength  to  flog 
you  no  longer.  Take  that,  you — " 

He  swung  the  whip.  It  whistled  as  it  cut 
152 


I  '11  stan'  by  you" 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


the  air  and  came  down  with  a  pitiless  lash 
on  the  boy's  shoulders. 

He  quivered  under  it  but  held  stiff;  and 
turning  his  mute  face  to  his  father,  he 
looked  at  him  without  a  word. 

Without  a  word — but  with  the  eyes  of 
the  dead,  with  the  eyes  of  his  mother.  And 
Bigelow  let  the  whip  fall  from  his  hand  and 
faltered:  "Mary's  boy!  I  've  struck  you." 
He  threw  his  arms  about  him,  as  if  he  would 
cure  with  his  embrace  the  wound  of  that 
cut  on  the  shoulders ;  and  gathering  the 
boy  to  him,  he  sobbed:  "I  '11  stan'  by  you, 
Robb.  I  '11  stan'  by  you." 


IT  was  this  scene — it  was  this  grief — 
that  confronted  the  tender  old  senti 
mentalist  whenever  he  thought  of  the 
new  hall.  He  could  not  bear  to  see  the  place 
where  he  had  turned  on  guilty  innocence 
and  struck  it  with  a  whip.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  the  spirit  of  the  boy's  mother  must 
have  seen  him  and  shuddered.  It  was  as  if 
his  whip  had  fallen  on  her  very  shoulders, 
since  the  boy  had  always  been  to  him  visibly 
her  flesh  and  something  of  her  soul.  And 
now  that  Robert  had  gone,  with  the  sting 
of  the  lash  on  his  back  as  the  last  memento 
of  his  foster-father's  love,  Bigelow  felt  as 
if  he  had  maltreated  a  child  on  its  death 
bed;  and  he  hated  himself  and  loathed  the 
memory  of  the  Commandery  Room  with  a 
156 


0 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


passionate  self-horror  that  woke  him  in  his 
bed  to  long  hours  of  sleepless  remorse  and 
persecuted  him  even  in  his  uneasy  dreams. 

What  had  happened  since  that  night  had 
only  served  to  make  the  boy  seem  more 
the  innocent  martyr — more  the  persecuted 
victim  of  circumstances — more  guilelessly 
forgivable  and  over-punished.  And  Bige- 
low  accused  himself  the  more  bitterly  be 
cause,  when  every  one  else  had  turned 
against  the  lad,  he  too  had  failed  Robert 
instead  of  defending  him,  right  or  wrong. 

"Hallie,"  he  told  the  girl— when  she 
came  into  the  room  after  the  departure  of 
Smiffen  and  the  veterans,  and  found  him 
alone  with  such  thoughts  as  these — "Hallie, 
us  parents  has  a  hard  time  knowin'  what  to 
do.  We  got  to  sit  in  judgment-like  on  our 
children  an' — an'  we  're  afraid  to  spoil  'em 
by  not  punishin'  'em — an'  all  the  time, 
mebbe,  we  ought  to  be  defendin'  an'  helpin* 
'em.  I  been  thinkin'  that  the  Judge  now— 
157 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


p'raps  he  done  what  he  thought  was  best. 
Mebbe  he  's  missin'  you.  You  ought  n't 
to  be  too  hard  on  a  father,  Hallie." 

"Mr.  Bigelow,"  she  replied,  with  all  the 
hardness  of  her  inexperience,  "my  father 
did  wrong  to  Robb  and  he  knows  it.  At 
first  I  thought  he  would  undo  it,  and  I 
waited.  And  when  he  left  town  and  went  to 
Indianapolis,  because  people  here  would  n't 
speak  to  him  on  the  streets,  I  went  with  him 
and  tried  to  make  him  do  something  to 
make  it  right — and  he  would  n't.  He 
knows  he  has  done  wrong.  He  knows  it. 
But  he  's  too  proud  to  do  anything  to  let 
people  think  so !" 

"Mebbe  it  was  an  impulse,"  Bigelow  tried 
to  excuse  him,  thinking  of  his  own  action. 
"Mebbe  he  did  it  before  he  thought." 

"No !"  she  cried.  "No !  He  made  up  his 
mind  to  do  it,  that  night — after  he  found 
out  what  Robert  had  done — after  we  came 
home  from  the  Hall.  He  said  Robert  was 


158 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


a  thief,  and  I  told  him — I  told  him  how  it 
happened — that  Robert  did  n't  understand 
— that  he  had  n't  meant  to  steal.  And  he 
would  n't  believe  me.  He  said  Robert 
had  n't  told  me  the  truth.  And  when  I  told 
him  I  would  never  give  Robert  up,  he  said 
he  would  never  have  his  daughter  marry  a 
thief — and  he  sent  me  to  my  room,  and  got 
Mr.  Wellman,  and  they  were  together  in 
the  library  until  it  was  nearly  morning.  I 
was  watching  at  my  window  when  he  went 
away.  I  was  afraid — but  I  did  n't  think 
they  'd  dare.  I  did  n't  think  they  could." 
"No,"  Bigelow  said.  "Ner  me !" 
"And  next  morning,  when  he  called  me 
down  to  breakfast,  and  I  would  n't  eat  any 
thing,  he  watched  me,  but  he  did  n't  say 
anything;  and  I  knew  his  mind  was  made 
up  to  do  something,  but  I  did  n't  know  what 
it  was.  I  thought  it  was  just  that  he  in 
tended  to  have  Robert  disgraced  by  having 
him  brought  into  court.  And  I  told  him 
159 


"He  could  n't  tell  me  anything  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


again  that  I  did  n't  care  what  he  did,  I 
would  n't  give  Robert  up.  And  he  did  n't 
say  anything.  And  that  frightened  me 
more  than  ever.  And  when  he  went  away  to 
his  office,  I  ran  around  the  other  way,  and 
came  here  to  tell  you  they  were  going  to  do 
something,  and  there  was  no  one  here — " 

"I  was  out  raisin'  the  money,"  Bigelow 
said,  in  the  manner  of  a  man  recalling  the 
inevitability  of  fate.  "They  'd  told  me 
that  Pettingill  was  n't  goin'  to  press  the 
charge.  They  'd  been  up  all  night  with 
him.  I  was  here  with  Robb  when  they  came 
an'  told  me  it  'd  be  all  right  if  I  'd  raise  the 
money." 

"And  so,"  she  hurried  on,  breathlessly, 
"when  there  was  no  one  here  I  ran  down  to 
the  Court  House,  and  I  could  n't  find  any 
one  but  the  janitor — Mr.  Kilbert — and  he 
could  n't  tell  me  anything  except  that  the 
whole  Post  had  been  up  all  night.  Then 
Mr.  Wellman  came  in,  and  I  knew  it 
161 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


would  n't  be  any  use  to  ask  him,  but  I  did. 
And  he  tried  to  get  out  of  it  by  saying  he 
represented  the  District  Attorney  and 
could  n't  'venture  an  opinion' ;  and  he  tried 
to  put  me  off  by  saying  it  was  n't  very  'flat 
tering'  to  him  that  I  should  prefer  Robb, 
and  I  saw  he  was  hiding  it — what  they  in 
tended  to  do — and  I  saw  he  was  trying  not 
to  smile  to  himself  when  he  looked  at  his 
watch.  And  when  I  told  him,  too,  that  no 
matter  what  they  did  I  'd  never  change  to 
Robb,  he  said  'Oh,  I  think  you  will.  I 
think  you  will,'  and  went  away  to  the 
Grand  Jury  room.  And  then  I  knew  they  'd 
do  it.  And  that  's  when  I  wrote  the  note  to 
Robb  that  you  gave  him ;  and  then  I  ran  out 
again  to  try  to  find  you  or  some  one. 
And-" 

She  sat  down,  biting  her  lips  to  keep 
back  the  tears.  Bigelow  had  been  pacing 
up  and  down  heavily.  He  stopped  to  pat 
her  on  the  shoulder.  "They  could  n't  'a' 
162 


• 


"He  tried  to  get  out  of  it" 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


done  nothin'  if  it  had  n't  been  fer  Pet- 
tingill,"  he  said,  as  if  that  excused  her 
father.  "Never  mind,  Hallie.  You  done 
yer  best.  You  got  nothin'  to  regret.  You 
never  turned  on  the  boy —  Well,  it  's  hard 
to  know  what  to  do  when  you  're  a  parent. 
I  s'pose  the  Judge  thought  he  was  doin' 
what  was  best.  An'  when  you  owe  a  man  a 
grudge,  like  he  owed  me — " 

"I  '11  never  forgive  him,"  she  said. 
"Never !" 

She  had  set  her  pretty  mouth  in  a  tight- 
lipped  determination.  Her  expression  re 
minded  him  of  her  father.  "Well,  well,"  he 
said,  "don't  let  's  talk  about  it." 

He  turned  to  the  garden  window  where 
the  afternoon  sun  was  beaming  in  strongly, 
and  the  frost  was  melting  on  the  panes.  He 
scratched  at  a  translucent  film  of  ice  with 
his  forefinger,  reflectively.  "He  's  like  his 
father — Robb  is,"  he  said.  "Some  boys  're 
that  way.  .  .  .  His  father  now — I  remem- 
164 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


her  when  Mary  met  him.  I  seen  I  had  no 
chance  with  her  after  that.  She  'd 
'a'  done  anythin' — gone  anywhere — with 
him.  .  .  .  Well,  that  's  the  way  it  is.  ... 
I  mind  old  Woods  askin'  me  if  I  thought  I 
was  drivin'  a  hearse.  I  was  mighty  glad 
when  the  war  broke  out  an'  I  could  get 
away  from  here."  He  shook  his  head  over 
it,  smiling  ruefully;  and  then,  catching 
sight  of  a  moving  figure  down  the  road,  he 
said:  "Here  's  Cap  Bestor  comin'  back 
with—  Oh,  it  's  Mr.  Smiffen.  Don't  go, 
Hallie.  Set  where  you  are." 


XI 


IT  was  apparent  at  once — when  Smiffen 
entered — that  he  had  heard  something 
to  fill  him  with  amazement.  His  eyes 
showed  it ;  he  showed  it  in  the  way  he  with 
drew  himself  into  the  background  of  Bes- 
tor's  meeting  with  Hallie,  and  looked 
blinkingly  at  Bigelow  and  turned  from  him 
to  study  the  girl.  There  was  not  only 
amazement — there  was  an  indignant  in 
credulity  in  his  expression,  as  if  these  two 
had  been  the  victims  of  some  impossible  in 
justice  of  which  he  knew  the  bare  outline 
but  was  eager  to  hear  the  details.  And  he 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  impatiently, 
to  wait  until  Bestor  was  quiet,  so  that  he 
might  ask  the  questions  that  were  trembling 
on  his  lips. 

166 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Bestor  was  cautiously  insinuating  to 
Bigelow  and  the  girl  that  he  had  had  a  let 
ter,  an  inquiry  from  an  important  person, 
some  days  before,  and  that  he  confidently 
expected — and  he  believed  that  he  had 
"good  grounds  to  confidently  expect" — 
that  something  would  be  done  about  Rob 
ert.  He  had  not  mentioned  the  matter 
before ;  he  had  kept  it  a  secret,  because,  he 
said,  he  had  not  wished  to  raise  any  false 
hopes. 

Unfortunately  it  was  obvious  that  his 
more  rosy  view  of  the  matter  was  due  now 
to  the  influence  on  his  spirits  of  a  New 
Year's  celebration  and  a  convivial  canteen. 
Bigelow  glanced  at  the  girl,  to  see  that  she 
understood  the  situation;  and  then  he 
wrung  Bestor's  hand  with  gratitude,  if  not 
with  hope.  "It  's  all  right  anyhow,  Cap," 
he  said,  forcing  the  lawyer  into  a  chair. 
"You  done  yer  best.  Don't  you  worry.  Set 
down.  Set  down." 

167 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"But  I  don't  see  how  it  happened," 
Smiffen  blurted  out.  "A  judge  can't — " 

"Well,  he  did!"     Bigelow  turned  to  him. 

"But  your  lawyer — " 

"/  was  counsel  in  the  case,"  Bestor  said, 
and  drew  himself  up  in  his  chair. 

"It  was  n't  him.  It  was  Pettingill," 
Bigelow  defended  him.  "We  thought  he 
was  n't  goin'  to  press  the  charge." 

"He  was  influenced,"  Hallie  said  faintly, 
"by  my  father." 

Bestor  waved  his  hand,  in  the  manner  of 
authority.  "Mr.  Lester  Pettingill  was 
'got  at.'  My  legal  instinct  told  me  he  'd 
been  got  at.  And  when  he  came  into  the 
court-room  that  morning,  I  told  him  so. 
'At  dawn,'  I  said,  'you  were  in  a  very  differ 
ent  frame  of  mind;  and,  on  the  strength  of 
what  you  said  then,  I  told  Mr.  Bigelow  that 
if  he  could  return  the  funds,  you  were 
willing  to  drop  the  charge.'  And  when  he 
told  me  that  I  might  talk  to  his  lawyer,  I 
168 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


said  to  him:  'Mr.  Pettingill,'  I  said,  'I 
stamp  that  assertion  as  a  lie.  There  are  n't 
but  two  lawyers  in  our  community.  I  rep 
resent  the  boy.  The  other  one,  though  not 
a  comrade  in  fact,  is  a  gentleman,  and  he 
has  assured  me  that  he  would  not  appear  in 
the  case.  I  stamp  your  assertion  as  a  lie, 
sir.'  And  he  replied  to  the  effect  that 
young  Wellman  had  advised  him  as  to  his 
duty,  and  he  was  determined  to  do  it." 

"There!"  Hallie  cried,  at  this  confirma 
tion  of  her  own  suspicions. 

"But,"  Smiffen  began  impatiently. 

Bestor  stopped  him  with  a  legal  fore 
finger.  "Lester  Pettingill  was  wearing  his 
Sunday  clothes — a  significant  fact  to  any 
one  who  knew  Mr.  Pettingill.  He  was 
chewing  a  cigar  which  he  had  not  lighted. 
Significant!  Significant! — He  was  pre 
pared  to  appear  before  the  Grand  Jury. 
And  when  we  asked  him  not  to  do  so,  'out  of 
pity  for  our  Post  Commander,'  he  replied 
169 


"  I  stamp  that  assertion  as  a  lie 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


that  he  did  not  see  why  he  should  pity  the 
Post  Commander — that  the  Post  Com 
mander  had  said  he  was  in  no  condition  to 
be  trusted  with  the  Post  funds — that  the 
Post  Commander,  on  the  night  of  the  open 
ing  of  our  Hall,  had  made  him  take  off  his 
uniform,  had  threatened  to  have  him  put 
out  of  office,  had  taken  from  him  his  com 
mittee  badge,  had,  in  fact,  as  he  said,  'dis 
graced'  him.  He  had,  he  maintained,  been 
persecuted  in  the  Post — " 

Smiffen  interrupted  this  tedious  explana 
tion:  "But  the  boy— " 

"Nevertheless,"  Bestor  went  on,  glaring 
at  him,  "I  could  see  that  Mr.  Pettingill  was 
by  no  means  easy  in  his  mind.  I  coaxed  him 
to  sit  down.  I  had  our  comrades  shut  the 
door  of  the  court-room.  I  gave  him  a  fresh 
cigar.  And  then,  taking  a  seat  beside  him, 
concealing  my  distaste  for  him,  I  said, 
'Lester,  my  old  friend,  we  have  all  been 
pressing  you  too  hard.  There  's  really  a 
171 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


loyal  and  splendid  side  to  your  character, 
if  people  only  knew  how  to  appeal  to  it.'  I 
soothed  him.  I  appealed  to  him.  'Why,' 
'I  said,  ''there  's  Wes'  out  now,  getting  the 
last  few  dollars  together,  believing  what  you 
said  this  morning — happy — thinking  the 
trouble  's  all  over.'  And  while  I  spoke,  I 
saw  his  face  soften.  I  saw  him  stop  chewing 
his  cigar.  I  said,  'I  know  you,  Let.  I 
know  that  at  the  last  minute  you  '11  never 
stand  against  an  old  soldier.' 

"Then  I  heard  some  one  enter  the  court 
room.  It  was  Miss  Letitia  Grigsby.  She 
was  weeping,  and  I  said  to  him:  'The  tears 
of  a  woman — I  know  you,  Let!  The  tears 
of  a  woman  will  break  you,  gallant  comrade 
though  you  are.'  ' 

He  spread  his  hands  eloquently.  "Miss 
Grigsby  did  not  understand  the  situation. 
When  she  saw  him  there  she  flew  into  a 
passion — justified,  but  impolitic.  She 
abused  him.  I  attempted  in  vain  to  silence 
172 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


her.  I  defended  him.  She  declared  that  he 
should  have  been  able  to  look  after  his  own 
funds — that  it  was  'all  his  fault' — that  he 
was  a  'miserable  excuse  for  an  old  veteran.' 
She  even  reminded  him  that  his  war  record 
was  not  clear — that  he  had  run  away  at  the 
battle  of  Wilson's  Creek — that  the  whole 
Post  knew  it,  though  they  did  try  to  cover 
it  up.  All  of  which  was  true,  but  ill-timed. 
Unhappily,  very  ill-timed ! 

"And  Pettingill  replied  that  now  he  knew 
how  he  was  discussed  in  the  Post  Com 
mander's  family.  He  asserted  that  he 
could  see  through  the  holes  in  a  ladder — by 
which  he  meant  that  he  understood  I  had 
been  trying  to  get  around  him.  He  said 
that  he  had  been  deceiving  us  at  daybreak — 
that  the  boy  had  taken  the  funds — and  that 
the  boy  would  have  to  pay  the  penalty.  And 
while  we  were  still  arguing  with  him,  to  the 
best  of  our  ability,  he  was  summoned  to 
attend  before  the  Grand  Jury;  and,  break- 
173 


" run  away  at  the  battle  of  Wilson's  Creek  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


ing  away  from  our  persuasions,  he  went  to 
answer  the  call." 

He  folded  his  arms  on  his  breast,  with  an 
air  of  defiantly  inviting  the  impertinent 
stranger  to  cross-examine  him.  But  in  spite 
of  his  defiance,  his  eyes  were  uncertain  in 
their  focus,  and  he  found  it  difficult  to  keep 
them  fixed  on  Smiffen. 

"But  the  boy  had  n't  intended  to  steal  the 
money,"  Smiffen  argued. 

"That  's  what  /  said,"  Bigelow  cried. 
"Why  when  I  was  a  boy — I  remember,  once 
— when  I  was  about  so  high — I  took  fifty 
cents  from  the  wagon  seat — rolled  out  o' 
my  father's  pocket.  The  same  thing  ex 
actly!  I  went  right  out  with  it,  an'  saw  a 
sign  said  'Cherry  Tarts.'  Went  an'  paid  it 
all  over  the  bak'ry  counter.  An'  just  as  I 
was  goin'  out  with  the  bag,  my  father  come 
in.  'Eat  'em!'  he  says.  'Eat  'em  all — 
now!'  '  He  made  a  wry  face.  "I  can  taste 
'em  yet  whenever  I  think  of  it."  He  smiled 
175 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


at  them,  pathetically.  "Boys  will  be  boys. 
Robb  'd-" 

"And  anyway,"  Smiffen  cut  in,  "if  you 
knew  the  Judge  was  prejudiced — " 

"Mr.  What's-your-name,"  Bestor  rounded 
on  him,  "there  is  such  a  thing  in  Indiana  as 
contempt  of  court." 

"Well,  here,"  Bigelow  interfered,  to  stop 
a  quarrel.  "You  don't  understand  the  way 
things  were."  He  rubbed  his  forehead, 
worried.  "Cap  Bestor  explained  it  to  me, 
when  I  come  in  with  that  money." 


XII 


Y 


POU  see,"  he  said,  "when  I  'd  got 
the  money  I  thought  the  trouble 
was  all  over,  an'  when  I  come  into 
the  court-room  an'  saw  'Tish  cryin',  that  's 
what  I  told  her:  that  if  she  wanted  some- 
thin'  to  cry  fer,  she  'd  better  go  out  an'  try 
to  raise  money  in  a  hurry.  The  only  thing 
that  was  worryin'  me  was  about  Robb,  be 
cause  he  had  n't  eat  nothin'.  Would  n't 
tech  the  sandwich  I  'd  bought  him.  .  .  . 
He  was  waitin'  down  in  the  hall,  an'  I  sent 
'Tish  down  stairs  to  try  him  with  it  again. 

"Well,  I  set  down  to  the  table  there  an' 
was  countin'  the  money  again  to  make  sure, 
when  the  Cap  here  set  down  beside  me  an' 
said  somethin'  about  Pettingill  pressin'  the 
charge.  I  did  n't  get  it  at  first,  but  when 
177 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


I  looked  up  at  him  I  seen  by  his  face  that 
the  trouble  was  still  on." 

He  turned  apologetically  to  Bestor.  "I 
guess  I  was  kind  o'  short  with  you,  Cap.  I 
thought  you  was  too  full  o'  the  law.  I 
thought  if  I  could  see  Let  I  could  put  it  to 
him,  man  to  man.  .  .  .  An'  then,"  he  ex 
plained  to  Smiffen,  "when  I  heerd  Let  was 
in  the  Gran'  Jury  room,  I  started  in  to 
order  him  out." 

"Forgetting,"  Bestor  added,  "that  you 
had  no  authority  over  Pettingill  in  the  mat 
ter.  Not  in  the  Court." 

"That  's  right,  Cap.  That  's  right.  I 
did  n't  know  which  way  to  turn.  I  'd  been 
thinking  about  gettin'  the  money.  Had  n't 
thought  of  anything  else.  .  .  .  An'  I 
thought  if  I  took  the  money  into  the  Gran' 
Jury  room  an'  showed  it — " 

"Nonsense.     Nonsense,"  Bestor  ruled. 

"Well,  there  it  was,"  Bigelow  sighed. 
"There  was  n't  no  way  o'  stoppin'  Pet- 
178 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


tingill.  An'  the  Cap  said  we  'd  have  to 
plead  guilty." 

"The  boy  had  no  case,"  Bestor  said.  "He 
had  admitted  to  the  Judge,  in  the  Hall,  that 
he  was  guilty.  The  Post  check  had  come 
back  marked  'No  funds.'  There  was  nothing 
to  do  but  throw  ourselves  on  the  mercy  of 
the  Court." 

Bigelow  muttered:  "The  mercy  o'  John 
Andrews !" 

"Well!"  Smiffen  objected.  "Was  n't 
there  any  way  a  lawyer  could — " 

"That  's  what  /  said !"  Bigelow  cried.  "A 
Habeas  Corpus  er  somethin'." 

Bestor  looked  his  disgust. 

"Well,  what  's  the  use  o'  havin'  a  lawyer 
if  he  can't  lie  out  o'  things,"  Bigelow  com 
plained. 

"The  boy  himself,"  Bestor  said,  "could  n't 
have  lied  out  of  it." 

Bigelow  sighed  again,  resignedly.  "I 
wanted  him  to  blame  it  on  me.  Sort  o'  say 
179 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


I  went  to  the  city  with  Robb — er  somethin' 
like  that — an' — an'  make  out  that — well 
that  I  spent  the — the  money." 

"An  insult  to  the  intelligence  of  the 
Court!  Wesley,  Robert  had  made  his 
bed-" 

"Well,  Cap,  it  was  awful."  He  wiped  his 
forehead,  at  the  mere  memory  of  that  real 
ization  of  his  impotence.  "To  think  we 
could  n't  do  nothin'  f  er  that  boy !" 

"There  was  nothing  we  could  do  but  plead 
guilty." 

Bigelow  sat  dejected.  "It  was  awful.  I 
did  n't  know  what  to  do.  When  the  Judge 
come  in,  I  scooped  the  money  into  my  hat 
an'  held  it  out  to  him.  Wanted  him  to  know 
I  had  it.  Asked  him  if  he  could  n't  fix  it  all 
up  somehow.  An'  he  said  there  warn't  no 
charge  ag'in'  Robert  before  him  yet.  So 
that  was  no  use." 

"Certainly  not,"  Bestor  held. 

"That  's  where  they  had  me,"  Bigelow 
181 


"  Wanted  him  to  know  I  had  it " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


said,  piteously.  "They  had  me  in  a  game  I 
did  n't  know  nothin'  about.  An'  ev'ry  time 
I  tried  to  do  anythin'  they  said  it  was  ag'in' 
the  rules,  an'  stopped  me.  ...  I  could  n't 
make  out  what  was  goin'  on,  half  the  time — 
lot  o'  men  comin'  in,  an'  young  Wellman 
sayin'  somethin'  about  some  papers  he  gave 
the  Judge,  an'  the  Judge  sayin'  somethin' 
an'  tellin'  'em  they  could  go — " 

"That  was  the  Grand  Jury,"  Bestor  ex 
plained,  "making  their  returns.  They  had 
found  a  true  bill  in  the  case  of  the  People 
versus  Bigelow.  There  was  nothing  else 
for  them  to  consider,  so  the  Judge  dismissed 
them." 

"Yes.  Yes.  I  heerd  the  Judge  say  some- 
thin'  like  that.  I  did  n't  know  what  it 
was." 

"And,"  Bestor  took  up  the  story,  pomp 
ously,  "the  Judge,  you  will  perhaps  remem 
ber,  announced  that  he  would  take  the 
defendant's  plea  and  proceed  with  the  trial 
183 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


at  once.  I  immediately  objected.  I  held 
that  it  was  not  customary  to  try  a  case  in 
the  same  term  as  the  presentment;  and  the 
Judge  replied  that  he  wished  to  clear  his 
docket  before  his  retirement,  and  this  was 
his  last  day  on  the  bench. 

"What  could  we  do?  I  argued  that  we 
were  entitled  to  some  time  in  which  to  pre 
pare  our  defence.  The  prosecuting  attor 
ney,  Mr.  Wellman,  immediately  pointed  out 
that,  judging  by  the  statements  made  by  the 
defendant,  we  would  require  very  little  time 
to  formulate  our  defence.  Which  was  true ! 
We  had  no  defence.  The  Judge  gave  us 
until  the  afternoon  session.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  protracting  the 
suspense  of  the  defendant's  family.  I  did 
not  suppose  that  Judge  Andrews  would 
allow  his  personal  feelings  to  enter  into  his 
judgment.  I  elected  to  go  to  trial  at  once. 

"The  Judge  ordered  the  defendant  to  be 
produced,  so  that  the  trial  might  proceed. 
184 


Incompetent,  irrelevant,  immaterial" 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Jim  Bishop  went  for  the  boy,  and  Mr.  Bige- 
low  tried  to  explain — " 

"I  tried  to  explain  the  whole  thing," 
Bigelow  said.  "I  wanted  to  do  it  before 
Robb  was  brought  up.  I  did  n't  see  no 
necessity  fer  a  trial  at  all." 

"And  Mr.  Wellman,"  Bestor  went  on, 
"promptly  and  very  properly  objected  that 
all  this  was  'incompetent,  irrelevant,  imma 
terial  and  not  germane  to  the  issue.'  I  rose. 
I  said:  'Your  honor,  I  must  apologize,  and 
— as  counsel  for  the  defendant — I  am  sure 
that  he  will  enter  a  plea  of  guilty  to  the 
charge  in  the  indictment.  But  I  desire  to 
say  that  this  Post  is  anxious  to  have  the 
matter  settled  amicably,  and  as  we  are  pre 
pared  to  make  restitution,  the  ends  of 
justice  will  be  subserved  by  suspending 
sentence.'  To  which  Mr.  Wellman  replied, 
'There  should  be  no  suspension  of  sentence' 
— and  the  boy  was  brought  in." 

At  the  recollection  of  it,  Bigelow 
186 


Your  honor,  I  must  apologize  ' 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


groaned:  "My  boy!"  There  were  tears  in 
his  eyes.  "He  had  n't  teched  his  sandwich," 
he  said  to  Smiffen.  "He  had  it  in  his  hand, 
with  the  paper  on  it." 

Smiffen  felt  his  own  eyes  filling  up.  He 
looked  away  and  shook  his  head. 

Bestor  had  gone  on,  ponderously. 
"There  was  nothing  that  we  could  object 
to  in  the  indictment.  It  had  been  correctly 
drawn.  It  deposed  and  set  forth  the  known 
facts  in  the  case  without  an  error.  I  was 
compelled  to  plead  guilty.  'Your  honor,' 
I  said,  'it  is  useless  for  me  to  dwell  upon  the 
circumstances  leading  up  to  this  unfortunate 
affair.  They  are  already  familiar  to  you. 
This  lad  went  to  the  city,  and  fell  into  the 
hands  of  a  shrewd  scoundrel  who  played 
upon  his  credulity.  The  lad  has  already 
learned  a  bitter  lesson,  and  I  am  sure  that 
your  Honor  will  suspend  sentence  and  repri 
mand  him.  I  might  urge  further  that  his 
father's  record  be  taken  into  consideration 
188 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


as  a  private  citizen  and  in  the  service  of  his 
country.'  To  which  Mr.  Wellman  replied 
that  there  were  no  extenuating  circum 
stances — that  the  breach  of  confidence  of 
which  the  defendant  was  guilty  was  only 
made  more  serious  by  his  father's,  implicit 
trust  in  him — that  to  discharge  him  with  a 
reprimand  would  only  encourage  him  in  his 
vicious  habits ;  that  in  vindication  of  the 
Post  Treasurer,  who  had  had  'the  manly 
courage  to  press  the  charge,'  and  as  an 
example  to  the  youth  of  the  community, 
the  defendant  should  be  punished  to  the  full 
extent  of  the  law. 

"I  could  not  take  any  legal  exception  to 
these  remarks.  His  delivery  was  bad — his 
voice  high — his  manner  jerky — and  he 
showed  unmistakable  signs  of  personal  ani 
mus  against  the  defendant.  But — " 

"He  was  lyin' !"  Bigelow  cried.  "He  was 
lyin'.  Robert  never  had  no  vicious  habits." 
He  had  risen  to  his  feet,  his  handkerchief 
189 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


clutched  in  his  hand,  his  face  twitching 
with  an  emotion  he  could  no  longer  control. 
"There  he  was,  lyin'  away  my  boy's  char'c- 
ter — sneerin' — face  like  a — a —  'I  'm  his 
father,'  I  says.  'I  got  a  few  remarks  to  say, 
Judge,'  I  says.  'I  want  to  bring  out  some 
fac's  that  nobody  knows  but  me.' "  He 
waved  his  arm,  speechless.  "They  had  to 
let  me.  Extenuatin'  circumstances.  No 
body  knowed  but  me  ...  I  says,  'You  be 
lieve  me,  Judge,'  I  says,  'he  's  a  good  boy. 
His  heart  's  all  right.  Ain't  nothin'  wrong 
about  him  at  all,'  I  says.  'If  you  'd  only  let 
him  explain  it  to  you  in  his  own  boy's  way — 
like  he  did  to  me — it  'd  make  all  the  dif- 
f'rence  in  the  world — '  " 

He  gulped  frantically,  as  if  he  felt  him 
self  fighting  for  the  boy  again  and  had  to 
struggle  to  keep  his  old  voice  clear.  "He — 
he  tried  to  head  me  off.  'Con-confine  yer- 
self  to  the  fac's,'  he  says.  John  Andrews! 
Mouth  like  a — 'I  'm  gettin'  right  at  'em,'  I 
191 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


says.  'Jus'  tryin'  to  p'int  out  how  easy  it 
was  fer  anybody  to  deceive  a  boy  who  be 
lieves  in  ev'rybody  yet.  A  boy  that  ain't 
had  no  bringin'  up.  Me — an  ol'  soldier — I 
brought  him  up !'  " 

He  mopped  his  face  desperately.  "I 
could  n't  think  o'  nothin'  to  say.  I — I  ain't 
ust  to  thinkin'.  I — he  wanted  to  know 
somethin'  about  'the  support,  er  the  support 
o'  the  home' — whether  Robb  'd  ever  con- 
contributed  to  the  support,  er  the  support 
o'  the  home.  I  had  him  there!  The  boy 
had  earned  some  money  once  an'  come  an' 
put  it  right  into  my  hand.  Had  the  whole 
Post  there  to  prove  it,  did  n't  I,  Cap?  It 
was  his  first  money!  Jim  Bishop,  Cory 
Kilbert — they  'd  all  heerd  about  that  five 
dollars.  Had  him  there ! 

"  'You  see,  Judge,'  I  says,  'all  this  that  's 
happened  to-day — it  's  my  fault  'cause  he  's 
an  orphan — an'  after  his  father  died — at 
Five  Forks — he  was  only  so  big — just  a 
192 


"  An'  Robb  begun  to  cry  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


little  baby — an'  his  char'cter  warn't  formed 
—an'  I  ain't  done  well  by  him.  There  was 
so  little  of  him  we  were  sort  o'  scared  of 
him — an'  humored  him  too  much — an'  so  I 
kep'  puttin'  off  trainin'  him,'  I  says,  'an' 
lettin'  him  be  happy  in  his  own  little  way — 
'cause  a  lost  childhood  can't  never  come 
back.' '  His  voice  broke ;  he  swallowed  in 
a  frenzied  eagerness,  his  eyes  staring  like 
a  child's  in  the  attempt  to  utter  what  he  had 
no  words  to  express.  "  'An'  the  first  thing 
I  knowed,'  I  says,  'before  I  seen  he  needed 
serious  advice,  he — he  shot  up  like  a  weed — 
an'  suddenly  he  warn't  a  baby  no  longer. 
An'  so,'  I  says, — 'an'  here  he  is  to-day,  be 
fore  you,  Judge,'  I  says — 'a  foolish  boy, 
perhaps,  but  not  a  bad  one — an  orphan  — 
but  if  you  '11  overlook  this,  Judge,'  I  says, 
'I  '11  do  better.  I  can't  let  my  respons'bility 
end  here.  So — so  don't,'  I  says — I  was — 
An'  Robb  begun  to  cry.  He  broke  down 
an' — an' — I  could  n't  say  nothin'  more.  It 
194 


?=? 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


got  me — in  the  throat.  I  was  n't  ust  to 
speakin'."  He  made  a  blind  gesture  of 
apology  with  his  handkerchief,  and  turning 
suddenly — as  Hallie,  weeping  too,  sprang 
up  to  hurry  to  him — he  stumbled  out  of  the 
room,  shaking  his  head  spasmodically  as  if 
the  recollection  were  an  ache  in  the  brain 
that  tortured  him. 


195 


XIII 


I 


T  'S  a  shame !  A  damn  shame !"  Smiff en 
muttered,  wiping  his  eyes  and  blowing 
his  nose. 

Hallie  sat  down  stiffly,  trying  to  control 
her  contorted  lips,  while  the  big  tears  rolled 
down  her  cheeks  unheeded  from  eyes  that 
saw  nothing  but  that  picture  of  her  father 
sitting  in  judgment  on  the  boy  she  loved. 

Bestor  had  clenched  his  hand  on  the  table 
top.  "I  knew  it,"  he  said,  in  a  hushed  voice, 
with  something  of  the  same  fixed  gaze  as  the 
girl.  "I  knew  we  'd  lost  as  soon  as  he  began 
'Young  man,  those  interested  in  you  may 
advance  specious  arguments  in  extenuation 
of  your  conduct.'  I  knew  it.  I  knew  it. 
But  when  he  said  'in  the  Jeffersonville  Peni- 
196 


Jim  Bishop  had  the  worst — to  take  him  away  from  Wes'  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


tentiary — one     year     at     hard     labor,'     I 
could  n't  believe  my  ears.     State's  Prison !" 

At  the  words  "Jeffersonville  Peniten 
tiary,"  Smiffen  had  started  and  frowned 
and  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  and  down  at 
the  floor,  as  if  searching  his  memory  for 
something  he  had  almost  found  again.  Sud 
denly  he  said  "Ah!"  with  raised  eyebrows, 
his  face  alight. 

Bestor  had  gone  on.  "I  could  n't  believe 
my  ears.  State's  Prison!  For  that  bo?//" 
He  wagged  his  old  head,  commiseratingly. 
"Jim  Bishop  had  the  worst — to  take  him 
away  from  Wes'.  God !  I  thought  Wes' 
would  go  mad.  ...  I  've  seen  men  die,  on 
the  battlefield,  in  the  hospital.  I  've  had 
them  cling  to  my  sleeve  and  fight  for  an 
other  breath.  It  was  worse  than  that.  I 
thought  it  'd  shake  the  heart  out  of  his 
body.  He  ran  after  the  Judge.  I  had  to 
hold  him — fighting — fighting  like  a  drown 
ing  man !" 

199 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


He  put  his  hands  up,  closing  his  eyes,  his 
lips  compressed  in  an  expression  that  said 
the  thing  was  beyond  words.  The  girl 
sobbed. 

He  sighed  and  shook  his  head.  "Wes' 
was  right.  No  judge  had  a  right  to  take 
a  boy's  future  and  throw  it  away  like  that. 
It  's  law,  but  it  5s  not  justice.  Judge  An 
drews  did  that  out  of  personal  spite.  It  's 
a  hard  thing  to  say  of  the  bench— Why!" 
He  turned  to  Hallie.  "Why,  even  young 
Wellman  had  n't  expected  it!  He  as  much 
as  told  me  so  before  he  went  back  to  Indian 
apolis." 

She  did  not  reply ;  and  they  were  sitting 
in  silence — Smiffen  fidgetting  with  a  desire 
to  speak,  but  compelled  to  wait  a  decent  in 
terval — when  Bigelow,  having  regained  con 
trol  of  himself,  came  back  from  the  dining- 
room,  looking  old  and  bent. 

He  sat  down  to  stretch  his  trembling 
hands  out  to  the  stove.  "A  man  lives  an' 
200 


"  I  thought  Wes'  would  go  mad 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


learns,"  he  said.  "When  I  went  to  the  war, 
I  'd  lost  all  int'rest  in  life.  Did  n't  care 
what  happened  to  me.  .  .  .  An'  then,  fight- 
in'  and  marchin'  an'  sleepin'  with  the  boys, 
I  seen  what  life  really  was — what  makes  it— 
with  comrades  like  that.  It  was  good.  I 
could  'a*  gone  on  that  way  f erever.  .  .  .  An' 
when  it  was  over,  I  come  back  here  with  a 
new  feelin' — among  neighbors — workin' 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  with  Robb  at  home 
here — an'  havin'  no  hard  feelin's  to  nobody. 
.  .  .  An'  then,  that  day  in  court,  I  thought 
it  'd  been  all  wrong.  It  all  turned  ag'in'  me. 
There  was  the  law  I  'd  fought  fer — an'  the 
court!  I  'd  help  make  'em.  I  'd  gone  out 
with  my  gun  an'  defended  'em.  An'  they 
turned  on  me  an'  took  Robert — took  ev'ry- 
thin'.  An'  made  Jim  Bishop  do  it.  An' 
made  all  the  boys  stan'  by  an'  see  it  done." 
He  turned  shakily  to  Bestor.  "That 's  why  I 
took  off  my  medals,  Cap.  I  was  done  with  it 
all.  There  warn't  nothin'  more  in  it  fer  me." 
202 


"  It 's  law,  but  it 's  not  justice  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Bestor  nodded.    He  had  understood. 

"An'  then  the  boys  all  come  to  offer  what 
they  could — Jim  Bishop  with  his  pension 
money,  eight  dollars  a  month — an'  ev'ry  one 
helpin' — drivin'  Judge  Andrews  out  o'  town 
an' Pettingill  after  him — an' nobody  pressin' 
me  to  pay  my  debts."  He  threw  out  a  hand 
at  them.  "I  tell  you  what  it  is.  Human 
nature  's  better  'n  its  laws — better  'n  its 
courts — better  'n  any  thin'.  'S  all  right, 
Cap.  We  all  done  our  best.  Robb  '11  be 
back  some  day.  I  ain't  complainin'."  He 
smiled  up  bravely.  "We  '11  come  out  all 
right." 

Smiffen  seized  his  opportunity.  "Mr. 
Bigelow,"  he  said  eagerly,  "when  I  first 
heard  your  boy's  name,  I  remembered  that 
I  'd  seen  it  in  print  somewhere.  I  used  to 
know  a  boy  named  Robert  Bigelow  at 
school.  And  when  I  saw  the  name  I  won 
dered  if  it  was  a  son  of  his.  That  's  how 
I  noticed  it.  And  just  now,  when  Captain 
204 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


— well,  I  remembered,  just  now,  that  I  read 
it  in  a  Jeff ersonville  paper,  on  the  train.  It 
was  a  news  item  from  the  penitentiary.  It 
said  your  boy  had  applied  for  a  patent  on  a 
spring  bolt — " 

"What?  There!"  Bigelow  cried. 
"What  'd  I  tell  you?  Eh?  ...  'Tish!" 
he  called.  "  'Tish !" 

Letitia  came  running  in  from  the  kitchen. 

"Robb  's  patented— tell  her!  Go  on. 
Tell  her.  I  want  to  hear  it  again." 

"I  was  telling  Mr.  Bigelow,"  Smiffen  ex 
plained,  "about  an  item  I  saw  in  a  Jefferson- 
ville  paper — on  the  train.  It  said  that 
'young  Robert  Bigelow,'  in  the  prison  there, 
had  applied  for  a  patent  on  a  spring 
bolt—" 

"There!  Did  n't  I  al'ays  tell  you? 
Printin'  presses  an'  paint  were  n't  possible 
where  he  is,  so  he  works  patient  Sundays 
on  his  little  bolt."  He  looked  up  at  the 
boy's  picture,  erect  and  proud.  "Robert 
205 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Bruce  an'  the  spider — that  's  what  that  boy 
is !    Might  as  well  lock  up  a  streak  o'  light- 


nm 


The  others  clamored  for  further  details, 
but  Smiffen  could  remember  none — except 
that  there  was  something  in  the  item  that 
had  struck  him  as  amusing — something 
about  Robert  having  given  the  option  on 
the  patent  to  a  "contractor  of  great  politi 
cal  influence"  who  was  also  serving  out  a 
sentence  in  the  prison. 

He  swallowed  his  smile  apologetically 
when  he  saw  that  they  did  not  find  anything 
amusing  in  the  matter. 

Bigelow  had  remained  gazing  fondly  at 
the  picture.  "Wonderful  boy!"  he  said. 
"You  could  tell  he  was  a  genius — he  was  so 
modest !" 

Smiffen  held  out  his  hand,  sincerely 
moved.  "Mr.  Bigelow,"  he  said,  "I  want  to 
congratulate  you.  I  was  never  gladder  of 

206 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


anything  in  my  life.  I  'm  proud  to  be  the 
one  to  bring  the  news.  And  I  want  to  say 
I  'm — I  'm  proud  to  know  you.  I  'm  glad  I 
met  you." 

Bigelow  grasped  his  hand,  smiling  a 
crooked  smile.  "You  ought  to  know  Robb. 
Wish  he  'd  been  here.  Eh,  Cap?  Eh,  Hal- 
lie?  Well,  this  may  be  the  turnin'  p'int  in 
Robb's  career.  What  'd  I  al'ays  tell  you?" 
And  then,  beaming  with  relief,  turning  to 
Letitia,  he  cried:  "What  time  is  it,  'Tish? 
Ain't  it  near  supper  time?  I  'm  as  hungry 
as  a  horse?  Come  on.  Let  's  have  some- 
thin'  t'  eat." 

She  did  not  wait  to  hear  anything  more. 
She  had  been  so  worried  by  his  lack  of 
appetite  at  dinner,  that  she  hurried  away 
at  once,  with  an  almost  maternal  delight, 
to  prepare  the  meal — although  it  was  more 
than  an  hour  from  supper  time. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  could  eat,  now,"  Bigelow 
207 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


laughed.  "Stay  to  supper  with  us,  Cap. 
Come  on." 

But  Bestor  had  still  some  New  Year's 
calls  to  pay  with  the  Post  members ;  and  he 
went — with  a  slap  on  the  back  from  Bigelow 
— to  carry  the  good  news  to  the  "com 
rades."  "Happy  New  Year,  Wes',"  he  said. 
"Eh?" 

Bigelow  dug  his  hands  into  his  pockets, 
delightedly.  "Oh,  our  troubles  '11  soon  be 
over  now,  Cap.  Two  er  three  months  more 
— countin'  time  fer  good  behavior.  It 
won't  take  long  to  wipe  this  all  off  the 
slate.  He  's  a  wonderful  boy !"  He  turned 
to  Hallie  when  the  captain  had  gone. 
"We  '11  soon  be  payin'  off  all  our  debts,  an' 
ownin'  our  own  roof  once  more.  Startin' 
out  fresh  in  life.  I  feel  good  fer  forty  years 
yet.  Jus'  beginnin'  t'  enjoy  life.  Eh?" 

"Well,"  Smiffen  said  doubtfully,  "I  hope 
the  boy  '11  appreciate — " 

"Oh,  pshaw  now,"  Bigelow  replied. 
208 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"Parents  don't  expec'  no  appreciation.  We 
all  know  it  's  easier  fer  one  mother  to  look 
after  seven  sons  than  it  is  fer  seven  sons  to 
look  after  one  mother.  He  's  all  right. 
He  's  a  good  boy.  Don't  you  worry." 


209 


5 


XIV 

COMING  to  their  supper,  in  this 
spirit  of  jovial  optimism,  they 
made  it  a  true  feast  and  celebra 
tion — on  the  remains  of  the  dinner's  turkey, 
helped  out  with  home-made  bread  and  a 
plentiful  dessert  of  cake  and  preserves. 
Even  Letitia  came  out  unexpectedly  with  a 
mild  humor  that  set  Bigelow  wheezing  with 
his  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes  shut,  in  a 
convulsion  of  noiseless  laughter.  He  twit 
ted  her  about  Jim  Bishop,  and  she  replied 
gaily:  "Well,  I  used  to  think  myself  that 
Jim  Bishop  did  n't  have  exactly  a  romantic 
figure  to  look  at — but  as  our  own  looks 
change  our  minds  change  with  'em." 

"Never  mind,  'Tish,"  he  said.    "Romantic 
figures   don't   get   up   early  to   build  fires. 
210 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Jim  5s  all  right.  An'  he  's  waitin' — any 
time  you  want  him."  He  winked  at  Smiffen. 

"I  don't  believe  in  bein'  too  hasty,"  she 
said.  "Wait  till  Robb  's  settled  in  life." 
And  she  nodded  and  smiled  at  Hallie,  who 
blushed  up  prettily,  as  embarrassed  as  a 
bride. 

Smiffen  was  enjoying  it.  It  was  a  little 
home  scene  from  a  sort  of  life  that  he  had 
not  known  since  his  boyhood.  It  was  as  sweet 
to  him  as  poetry.  And  there  was  one  inci 
dent  that  almost  brought  tears  to  his  eyes. 

That  occurred  when  supper  was  finished, 
and  Bigelow,  after  regarding  the  remains 
of  the  banquet  suspiciously,  blurted  out: 
"  'Tish,  how  do  we  manage  to  live  like  this, 
an'  the  grocer's  bill  last  month  only — what 
it  was?" 

Letitia,  to  conceal  her  mortification  at 
his  asking  such  a  question  before  company, 
answered  brazenly:  "Cost  of  livin'  's  gone 
down,  Wes'." 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"Has,  eh?    Had  n't  heard  it,"  he  said. 

She  reached  the  grocer's  book  off  the 
desk  behind  her.  "There  it  is!"  She  rose 
to  take  away  the  plates. 

"What  's  this?"  he  said,  discovering  a 
smaller  book  inside  the  other.  "Why,  this  's 
a  book  o'  yer  own." 

She  tried  to  snatch  it  from  him ;  and  fail 
ing  in  that,  she  had  to  explain  in  a  low, 
shamed  voice  that  it  was  "only  fer  little 
nibbles"  she  had  had  "between  meals" — that 
she  had  not  thought  it  right  to  make  him 
pay  for  "extra  bites"  for  herself. 

He  adjusted  his  glasses,  and  read  drily : 
"  'December  twenty-six :  one  box  starch.' 
Huh !  'Two  packages  bluein'.  .  .  .  One  gal 
lon  kerosene.  .  .  .  One — one  mouse  trap9! 
Been  nibblin'  between  meals,  eh?" 

"Oh,  WeiT  she  cried,  catching  at  the 
book. 

He  held  her  hand,  patting  it  fondly.  "I 
won't  have  it,  'Tish.  You  're  a  guardi'n 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


angel.  All  you  want  's  trumpets  an'  wings 
to  be  one — but  I  won't  have  it.  I  '11  atten' 
to  this." 

He  put  the  book  in  his  pocket,  and 
looked  around  for  Smiffen,  who  had  risen 
quickly  and  gone  to  make  a  pretense  of 
studying  the  portrait  of  General  Grant 
over  the  mantelpiece.  Letitia  went  away  to 
the  kitchen  with  her  tray.  "Oh!"  Bigelow 
said  apologetically,  recalling  himself  to  his 
duties  as  host.  "I  got  to  go  out  an'  bed 
the  horses.  Come  along  an'  see  Robb's 
workshop.  Ever  seen  it,  Hallie?  Have  to 
have  it  all  swep'  an'  ready  fer  him  when 
he  comes  back,  eh?  Come  on.  Want  to 
show  you  what  he  's  done  on  that  printin' 
press." 

They  had  to  wrap  themselves  up  and  go 
with  him,  smiling  affectionately  at  him  be 
hind  his  back ;  and  Letitia,  slipping  into  the 
empty  room  as  soon  as  they  had  gone,  hast- 
tened  to  take  from  the  desk  drawer  a  shallow 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


basket  of  sewing  which  her  experience  with 
the  grocer's  book  had  made  her  guiltily 
anxious  to  conceal  in  a  safer  place. 

It  was  with  such  sewing  that  she  had 
secretly  earned  the  money  to  pay  for  her 
"extra  bites." 

This  particular  piece  happened  to  be  a 
wedding  wreath  and  veil  which  she  had  been 
making  for  Captain  Bestor's  daughter. 
She  turned  it  over  critically,  took  it  out  of 
its  basket  and  scrutinized  the  sewing  on  the 
hem;  and  as  she  fingered  it,  a  mild  flush 
mounted  her  cheeks.  She  stood  with  it  in 
her  hands,  smiling  at  it  absent-mindedly. 

"Looks  a  mite  too  long,"  she  said  to  her 
self,  with  an  air  of  offering  herself  an  excuse 
for  yielding  to  a  temptation. 

She  glanced  at  the  windows ;  she  turned 
from  them  to  a  small  square  of  looking- 
glass  that  hung  on  the  wall  near  the  man 
tel;  and  she  looked  down  from  it  at  the 
wreath  of  blossoms  and  the  veil  in  her  hands. 
215 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


Then  she  put  them  on,  twinkling  at  her  re 
flection  in  the  glass. 

Her  blushes  faded  with  her  smile.  She  let 
her  hands  fall  slowly.  She  drooped  a  little, 
and  stood  looking  at  herself  sadly,  her  face 
showing  yellow  below  the  white  wreath. 

The  old  room  watched  her — that  room  to 
which  she  had  come,  years  before,  when 
Bigelow,  a  helpless  bachelor,  had  wanted 
some  one  to  assist  him  in  bringing  up  the 
baby  he  had  adopted.  She  had  accepted  the 
care  of  the  child  as  a  duty  of  patriotism. 
He  was  her  "war  baby" ;  and  she  had  not 
begrudged  him  the  maternal  love  and  the 
maternal  solicitude  she  had  lavished  on  him. 
She  had  been  willing  to  postpone  her  own 
life,  for  the  time — to  let  Jim  Bishop  and  his 
affection  wait  until  the  boy  should  be  big 
enough  to  do  without  her.  And  with  her 
mind  always  upon  these  others,  with  her 
days  full  of  work  and  her  thoughts  all 
pointing  her  forward,  she  had  gone  on  in 
216 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


a  blissful  unconsciousness  of  the  fact  that 
time  was  not  standing  still  for  her  either, 
that  no  matter  how  short  the  years  seemed 
to  be  to  look  back  upon,  each  year  was  a 
year  long  and  her  life  was  passing. 

The  sight  of  her  face  in  the  glass,  gro 
tesque  beneath  its  crown  of  bridal  blossoms, 
had  put  the  truth  before  her  shockingly. 
She  turned  quickly  to  the  room,  wide-eyed; 
and  for  the  first  time  she  saw  that  it  too  was 
old,  worn  and  shabby.  She  looked  at  the 
baby's  high  chair,  the  chair  that  only  yes 
terday  Robb  had — Yesterday!  She  sat 
down,  as  if  all  the  weaknesses  of  age  had 
descended  upon  her  in  an  instant.  Old? 
She  had  grown  old !  How  had  it  happened  ? 
Why  had  n't  she  noticed  it?  And  with  her 
hands  in  her  lap,  fumbling  at  the  veil  that 
had  entangled  itself  in  her  fingers,  she  sat 
blinking  like  a  person  wakened  from  sleep 
who  tries  to  recapture  the  conviction  of  a 
dream  that  has  passed. 
217 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


She  did  not  see  a  shadow  at  the  window. 
She  did  not  hear  tfye  outer  door  opened 
gently.  (Jim  Bishop  had  met  the  others 
outside,  and  he  had  come  in  to  enjoy,  in 
their  absence,  a  tete-a-tete  with  'Tish.) 
But  as  he  came  into  the  room,  she  turned, 
startled;  and  he  cried:  "Lord,  Letitia! 
How  it  does  become  you!" — radiant  with 
the  admiration  of  a  superannuated  gallantry 
that  had  risen  at  once  to  the  call  of  the 
sentimental  occasion. 

She  snatched  the  wreath  off  in  spite  of 
his  protests,  stammering  that  it  was  not  her 
veil — that  she  was  doing  "a  mite  o'  sewin'  ' 
which  she  would  n't  have  Wes'  know  of,  for 
all  the  world. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  putting  all  that 
aside,  "it  's  eighteen  years  since  we  first — " 
He  sat  down  all  smiles,  his  artificial  leg 
sticking  out  unbendingly  straight  before 
him.  "It  's  eighteen  years,  'Titia." 

She  did  not  brighten. 
218 


Lord,  Letitia  !     How  it  does  become  you 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"It  's  come  over  me,  to-day,  with  convic 
tion"  he  said — and  the  note  of  conviction 
sounded  rather  forced — "that  a  weddin'  in 
this  fam'ly  would  cheer  things  up  a  little. 
Eh?" 

She  did  not  reply.  She  looked  down  at 
the  veil  in  her  hands. 

"Come,"  he  said.  "It  's  New  Year's  day, 
Letitia.  Let  's  plan  a  New  Year's  weddin'. 
.  .  .  Seems  to  me  it  's  a  sort  of  a  duty  on 
our  part." 

She  shook  her  head.  "There  's  a  time  fer 
all  things,"  she  said  hoarsely,  "but  fer  some 
things  the  time  's  gone  by." 

"Oh,  pshaw,"  he  protested. 

"I  knew  it,  just  now  when  I  put  this  veil 
on." 

"Now,  Letitia,  don't  you  let—" 

"There  's  some  things  you  can't  put  off, 
Jim,"  she  said.  "When  I  first  knew  you 
wanted  me,  it — it  lifted  me  right  up  to  the 
skies.  But  after  a  man  proposes  fer  eighteen 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


years  steady  to  one  woman — "  She  smiled 
dubiously  in  a  distracted  appreciation  of 
the  humor  of  the  situation.  "It  's  been  a 
G.  A.  R.  weddin' — an'  a  Fourth  o'  July 
weddin' — an'  a  New  Year's  weddin' — but  it 
ain't  never  goin'  to  be  a  weddin'."  She  be 
gan  to  fold  up  the  veil  and  put  it  back  in 
its  basket.  "We  're  old — an'  we  got  old 
apart.  It  's  too  late." 

"Oh,  pshaw  !"he  protested,  undiscouraged. 
"We  ain't  old." 

"Well,"  she  said,  her  sense  of  humor  com 
ing  to  her  rescue,  "maybe  we  ain't — but,  oh, 
Jim,  we  've  been  young  an  awful  long  time !" 

He  laughed,  with  her,  reluctantly. 
"Still—" 

"No,"  she  said,  putting  aside  the  sewing 
basket,  "I  've  sort  o'  got  tangled  up  in 
Wes's  life  an'  Robb's  life,  till  I  don't  seem 
to  have  one  just  fer  myself.  I  '11  tell  you, 
Jim:  you  're  welcome  to  sit  in  at  a  meal, 
an'  I  '11  always  run  over  an'  darn  your 
222 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


clothes,  same  as  ever,  an'  you  can  come  and 
keep  me  comp'ny  evenings,  an'  sit  by  the 
fire—" 

He  had  the  doubtful  face  of  a  middle- 
aged  lover  who  finds  the  glamour  of  his  occu 
pation  suddenly  departed.  "Sittin'  by  the 
fire  's  cold  work,"  he  said. 

"Well,  Robb  '11  be  home  soon."  She  had 
begun  to  bustle  mechanically  about  her 
housework.  "It  would  n't  seem  home  to  him 
without  me.  .  .  .  No,  there  's  no  way  out 
of  it,  Jim  Bishop.  We  '11  have  to  go  on 
sweetheartin'  the  rest  of  our  lives." 

"It  ain't  on  account  o' — it  ain't  because 
I  had  to  take  Robb,  is  it,  'Titia?  It  was  as 
hard  fer  me  as — " 

"Nonsense,  Jim,"  she  replied.  "I  know 
how  that  was.  We  ain't  worryin'  about 
Robb."  And  she  told  him  the  news  of  the 
patent. 

He  was  not  as  cheerful  about  it  as  he 

might  have  been;  and  he  rose,  crestfallen, 
is 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


when  he  heard  Bigelow  returning.  He 
grumbled:  "I  don't  know  that  I  thought 
y'  ever  really  would  marry  me,  'Titia,  but 
still—" 

Letitia  had  disappeared  with  her  sewing 
basket.  He  looked  after  her,  rather  mourn 
fully. 

"Well,  Jim,"  Bigelow  greeted  him,  "is 
there  any  brighter  prospec's  fer  the  comin' 
season  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  give  up,"  Bigelow  chuckled. 
"Women  are  like  grasshoppers.  You  never 
know  which  way  they  're  goin'  to  jump." 

Bishop  stood  looking  into  his  hat  a  long 
time;  and  then,  turning  moodily,  he  went 
out  without  a  word. 

There  was  an  air  of  absent-minded  finality 
about  his  exit,  and  it  had  the  effect  of  re 
minding  Smiffen  that  it  was  time  he  was 
thinking  of  his  own  departure. 

"Well,  Mr.  Bigelow,"  he  said,  "I  don't 


*'  Women  are  like  grasshoppers  " 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


know  how  to  tell  you  how  much  I  've — I  've 
enjoyed  the  privilege  of  spending  the  day — 
of  being  here  with  you.  I  'm  not  a — well,  a 
family  man,  myself,  and  when  I  'm  not  liv 
ing  in  a  hotel  I  'm  on  the  train.  I  never 
realized  before  how  much  I  've  missed  in 
life.  I  used  to  think  I  'd  missed  a  lot  of 
trouble — and  maybe  I  have.  But,  I  don't 
know — even  trouble — even  troubles  like 
yours— well,  they  're  life!  And  the  way 
that  you  've — well,  it  's  taught  me  a  lesson. 
Human  nature — "  He  held  out  his  hand 
impulsively.  "Human  nature,  like  yours 
anyway — it  makes  a  man  think  better  of  his 
kind." 

Bigelow  grinned  with  an  almost  boyish 
bashfulness,  shaking  hands.  "Oh,  pshaw! 
You — I — what  've  you  got  to  go  fer? 
Can't  you  stop  the  night  with  us? 
We  '11—" 

"Got  to  get  back  to  business!  I  'd  like 
to  stay  here  till  the  boy  comes  back — and 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


see  you  all  happy  together.  But  I  '11  see 
him,  maybe.  I  '11  stop  off  some  time  when 
I  'm  going  through  again.  I  '11  just  run 
along  down  to  the  depot  before  it  gets  dark 
and  see  whether  that  eight  o'clock  's  going 
to  be  anywhere  near  on  time.  I  won't  say 
goodbye  now.  I  '11  be  back." 

And  with  a  hasty  wave  of  the  hat  that 
promised  a  speedy  return,  he  too  left  them. 


XV 

WHEN  Bigelow  turned  from  the 
door  he  still  wore  a  sort  of 
"company  smile"  that  was 
half  pleased  and  half  embarrassed.  It 
faded  as  Hallie  left  him — to  help  "Aunt 
Letitia"  in  the  kitchen — and  his  face  gradu 
ally  fell  into  a  look  of  fatigue.  It  had  been 
a  trying  day  for  him.  All  this  talk  of  Robb 
had  worked  upon  his  nerves  as  well  as  upon 
his  feelings.  It  had  exhausted  him.  He 
found  himself  tired — flat — discouraged. 
The  future  looked  less  promising  than  it 
had  appeared  in  the  first  glow  of  the  news 
of  the  boy's  success  with  his  "spring  bolt." 
He  stood  at  the  window  and  watched  the 
still  light  of  sundown  deepening  into  early 
dusk. 

228 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


The  old  days  had  gone — the  bright  days 
of  Robb's  childhood,  with  their  simple  hap 
piness  and  their  assured  hope.  Now  the 
boy  must  come  back  to  a  marred  life,  and 
have  always  in  his  memory  the  bitterness  of 
suffering,  and  work  to  win  back  the ,  con 
fidence  that  he  should  never  have  lost.  It 
would  take  years,  and  Bigelow  felt  himself 
an  old  man  who  might  not  live  to  see  the  end 
of  it.  Perhaps  Robb  would  not  wish  to  stay 
in  the  little  town  where  his  disgrace  was 
known  to  everybody.  He  would  be  going 
away.  He  might  even  not  come  back  from 
prison,  but  prefer  to  take  his  work  and  his 
inventions  to  the  city.  He  was  no  longer  a 
child ;  he  could  not  be  ordered  out  to  lie  in 
the  hammock  whenever  he  talked  of  leaving 
home.  No,  no.  The  old  days  were  gone. 
The  old  days  were  gone. 

Bigelow  turned  his  back  on  them  with  a 
sigh,  and  went  to  take  a  lamp  from  the 
mantel  shelf,  shuffling  almost  feebly  across 


The  old  days  were  gone 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


the  room.  He  struck  a  match  and  coughed 
and  wheezed  weakly,  choked  with  the  sulphur 
fumes,  as  he  lighted  the  lamp.  Old  age  was 
coming — a  lonely  old  age.  "Well,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "that  's  the  way  it  is.  That  's 
the  way."  And  he  went  resignedly  to  his 
room,  to  put  on  a  pair  of  slippers  so  that 
he  might  settle  down  to  patient  comfort  for 
the  evening. 

The  clock  ticked  placidly  in  the  silence. 
The  smoke  from  the  match  hung  and  drifted 
about  the  lamp.  The  warm  room  waited, 
as  tranquil  as  domesticity,  as  calm  as  old 
love.  And  when  the  door  opened  and  the 
boy  stood  there,  the  very  hush  and  dimness 
of  it  welcomed  him  into  peace. 

The  mild  light  showed  him  pale,  tired- 
looking,  and  very  sad.  He  wore  his  summer 
suit  of  snuff-colored  cloth,  without  an  over 
coat,  his  collar  turned  up  against  the  cold, 
his  hands  red  to  the  wrists.  He  shivered; 
his  hat  shook  in  his  numb  fingers;  but  his 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


face  showed  no  consciousness  of  his  con 
dition.  He  stood  looking  from  one  re 
membered  detail  of  the  room  to  another, 
breathing  quickly,  all  the  desire  of  months 
of  longing  feasting  in  his  eyes. 

He  had  lain  awake  in  his  cell  at  nights, 
picturing  that  room  to  himself,  in  a  boy's 
attempt  to  cheat  the  empty  darkness  with 
the  image  of  home.  He  had  gone  in  imagin 
ation — as  his  eyes  went  now — from  the  old 
desk  in  which  he  kept  his  love  letters  unsent 
— to  the  little  melodeon  long  since  dumb — 
past  the  mantelpiece  with  its  remembered 
ornaments — with  its  war  prints  and  its  flag 
and  the  bugle  that  he  had  so  longed  to  play 
with  as  a  child — and  all  these  cheap  and 
simple  furnishings  were  as  dear  to  see  again 
as  if  they  had  been  the  beauties  of  some 
Eden  from  which  he  had  been  driven. 
Home !  It  was  home ! 

His  knees  weakened  with  the  rush  of  blood 
to  his  heart.  The  whole  place  swam  before 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


him.  He  dropped  his  hat  and  staggered  to 
the  table ;  and  sinking  into  a  chair  there,  he 
laid  his  head  on  his  arms  and  felt  his  tears 
hot  on  his  hands. 

It  was  so  that  Bigelow  first  saw  him.  But 
the  old  stage  driver,  coming  noiselessly  in 
from  his  bedroom  in  his  slippers,  could  not 
be  sure  who  it  was — or  would  not  believe  the 
evidence  of  his  own  eyes  that  it  was  Robert. 
He  stood  with  one  hand  on  the  latch  of  the 
door,  staring  palely  at  the  head  and  shoul 
ders  that  showed  in  the  lamplight.  And 
when  the  boy  sat  up  slowly,  blinded  with 
tears,  looking  directly  at  his  father  with 
out  seeing  him,  Bigelow's  "Robert?"  was 
given  in  that  peremptory  quick  voice  of 
fear  in  which  a  man  challenges  a  hallucina 
tion. 

The  boy  tried  to  blink  away  the  blur  in 
his  eyes,  rising  to  face  the  voice. 

"Robert!" 

It  was  the  cry  that  is  wrung  from  the 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


heart  when  a  strong  joy  gives  it  a  wrench  of 
pain  and  the  throat  clutches  on  the  voice 
and  the  jaws  stiffen.  The  old  man,  with  his 
arms  outstretched,  tottered  forward;  and 
the  boy  sprang  to  catch  him  as  if  afraid 
that  he  would  fall. 

Their  words  were  inarticulate,  broken 
with  a  sobbing  laughter.  Bigelow,  his  arms 
about  the  boy's  shoulders,  beat  him  on  the 
back,  and  held  him  off,  and  took  his  face 
in  his  trembling  hard  hands,  and  fondled 
him,  and  grimaced  speechlessly  with  features 
contorted  in  a  tooth-chattering  grin  that 
was  drenched  with  tears  of  delight. 
"M-m-myboy!  Robert!  T-tell  me— "  He 
reached  with  one  hand  to  turn  up  the 
light,  holding  the  boy  with  the  other  as 
if  afraid  he  might  escape  again.  "How — 
How—" 

The  boy  stammered:  "I  've — I  've  been 
pardoned,  Dad !" 

Bigelow  let  him  go,  then;  and  laughed 
236 


14  Are  you  hungry  ?     Are  you  ?" 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


and  wept  together,  wiping  his  eyes  with  his 
bare  hand  and  the  sleeves  of  his  shirt.  "Par 
doned!  My — my  poor  boy!  You  've  been 
pardoned."  He  called:  "Letitia!  Letitia!" 
He  caught  at  Robert.  "Are  you  hungry? 
Are  you  ?" 

"Yes,  Dad!"  the  boy  cried. 

"Letitia!    Letitia!" 

And  when  Letitia  came  hurrying  in,  the 
old  man  greeted  her  with  a  crazy:  "He  's 
hungry !" 

"Robert!"  she  screamed,  and  rushed  to 
him. 

She  was  still  hugging  him,  hysterically, 
when  Hallie  followed  in,  alarmed.  She  stiff 
ened  with  an  incredulous  low  gasp  of 
"Robb !" 

Bigelow  nodded  and  chuckled  and  caught 
at  Letitia  and  turned  her  around.  The  boy 
started  back  at  sight  of  Hallie  and  dropped 
his  head  guiltily.  The  girl  went  to  him. 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


She  put  her  hand  under  his  chin,  and  raising 
his  face,  she — 

"Hallie!" 

She  kissed  him.  And  as  the  boy's  arms 
went  round  her,  Bigelow  and  Letitia  tiptoed 
silently  out  of  the  room. 


XVI 


o 


H,  Robb !"  she  wept.     "Robb !" 

He  caressed  her  and  tried  to 
comfort  her.  "It  's  all  right, 
Hallie.  It  's  all  over  now.  It  's — it  's  all 
right.  I  've  been  pardoned.  It  's  all  over 
now.  You  ought  n't  to  cry  now." 

"I  'm  not,"  she  sobbed.  "Not  because 
I  'm-oh,  dear!" 

He  understood,  at  last,  that  it  was  her 
relief  that  had  overcome  her — her  happi 
ness.  "Hallie,"  he  said,  "I  think  it  's  the 
pluckiest  thing  a  girl  ever  did — your  stand 
ing  by  me  this  way.  I — "  He  caught  her 
to  him.  "I  '11  be  good  to  you,  Hallie,"  he 
whispered  fervently.  "Oh,  I  '11  be  good  to 
you !" 

"You — you  won't  go  away  again?" 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"Go  away!"  he  cried. 

"I  was  afraid  you  would  n't  come  back." 

He  held  her  away  from  him  with  a  sudden 
thought.  "Hallie,"  he  said,  "your  father- 
He  came  down  on  the  train  with  me.  He  's 
looking  for  you.  Does  he  know  where  you 
are?" 

"Father?  Here?"  She  glanced  back  at 
the  door,  startled  for  the  moment.  Then 
she  shook  her  head.  "I  've  left  him.  I  '11 
never  go  back.  Never !  I  'm  not  afraid  of 
him.  I  have  money  of  my  own.  I  'm  going 
to  live  with  my  cousins  till — till  you  're 
ready  to — " 

"Hallie!" 

His  boyish  ardor  overwhelmed  her  in  an 
outburst  of  passionate  young  kisses.  She 
clung  to  him,  breathless,  a  little  frightened. 
"Robb,"  she  gasped,  in  a  delighted  tremor. 
"You  '11— oh,  Robb!" 

"I  could — oh,  I  could  eat  you,"  he 
laughed. 

243 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"You  must  n't  .  .  .  now!"  She  freed 
herself,  to  face  Letitia's  return  with  her 
tray;  and  laughing,  with  her  young  cheeks 
aflame  and  her  eyes  still  bright  with  tears, 
she  danced  over  to  the  table  and  helped 
spread  the  cloth,  shaking  her  head  mis 
chievously  at  Letitia,  who  tried  to  tease 
them  both  with  an  admonishing  and  roguish 
smile. 

Bigelow  came  in,  bringing  a  lighted  lamp 
in  each  hand,  in  a  festal  desire  to  have  light 
on  their  happiness.  Robert  drew  the  blinds. 
Hallie  and  Letitia  set  the  table.  And  they 
all  talked  and  laughed  together  as  if  they 
were  about  to  make  a  picnic  meal  on  a 
holiday. 

The  boy  had  to  tell  them  about  his  inven 
tions,  his  plans  and  his  hopes  for  the  future 
— which  he  did,  between  ravenous  gulps  and 
swallows,  smiling  from  one  face  to  another 
as  they  all  watched  him  with  their  elbows 
on  the  table,  delighting  in  his  appetite  and 
244 


lit 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


his  good  spirits.  And  they  had  to  tell  him 
all  the  small  happenings  of  the  interval  dur 
ing  which  he  had  been  gone.  And  if  there 
was,  over  them  all,  the  dark  memory  of  the 
prison  and  his  disgrace,  it  only  served  to 
make  them  more  determinedly  happy  in  the 
dear  joy  of  being  together  again,  here  in 
the  simple  sanctuary  of  their  home,  with  the 
world  and  the  night  well  shut  out  and  reso 
lutely  un  remembered. 

Even  when  Robert  told  them  that  Judge 
Andrews  was  in  town,  looking  for  his 
daughter,  it  gave  them  only  a  momentary 
pause  of  doubt.  "He  spoke  to  me,"  Robb 
said.  "I  think,  from  the  way  he  acted,  that 
he  helped — Well,  he  knew  I  was  pardoned. 
I  thought  he  'd  helped  to  get  it,  perhaps. 
He  asked  me  if  I  knew  where  Hallie  was." 

"Did  he  say  he  was  sorry  ?"  Letitia  asked. 
"Fer  what  he'd  done?" 

"No-o,"     Robb     admitted.     "But— well, 
you  know — he  could  n't  very  well  say  it." 
245 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"Then  you  should  n't  've  spoken  to  him 
till  he  did"  Letitia  cried. 

"Oh,  well"  the  boy  apologized  for  himself. 
"I  don't  think—" 

Bigelow  nodded  his  approval.  "That  's 
right,  Robb.  We  all  made  mistakes — all  of 
us.  It  's  over.  It  's  all  over.  We  got  to 
ferget  it  now.  We  can't  do  him  no  harm 
by  hatin'  him ;  an'  we  can't  do  ourselves  no 
good.  Hate  never  hurt  no  one  but  the 
hater.  We  got  to  put  all  that  behind  us — 
an'  go  ahead.  The  workshop  's  waitin'  fer 
you.  We  opened  her  up  t'-day." 

"Did  you,  Dad?      Good.     I'm—" 

They  were  interrupted  by  a  peremptory 
ring  on  the  door-bell.  Hallie  started  to  her 
feet,  expecting  her  father.  Letitia's  face 
hardened,  with  the  same  thought.  Bigelow 
rose  slowly,  but  without  hesitation.  "Fin 
ish  yer  supper,  Robb,"  he  said. 

It  was  Smiffen — hurrying  back  to  get  his 
valise,  so  that  he  might  catch  an  unex- 
246 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


pected  train  that  had  been  delayed  by  the 
"tie-up."  And  his  surprise  and  pleasure, 
when  he  saw  the  boy,  put  them  all  in  high 
spirits  again — all  except  Robb,  who  did  not 
appreciate  the  stranger's  interest  in  him 
nor  quite  respond  to  it  at  first.  Smiffen 
shook  hands  with  them  all  and  congratu 
lated  them  all.  "Well!  Well!"  he  cried. 
"I  think  I  've  brought  you  luck!  I  feel  as 
good  as  if  I  'd  made  a  hundred-thousand- 
dollar  sale!  This  is  fine!  Fine!"  He 
beamed  on  the  boy,  paternally.  "Young 
man,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  tell  you  that 
you  're  to  be  envied.  I  envy  you  myself. 
To  be  able  to  come  back  to  a  father  like 
yours  and  a  girl  that  does  n't  go  back  on 
you  when — no  matter  what  happens ! 
What  's  trouble  when  you  have  people  like 
that  behind  you?  You  're  in  luck.  You  're 
in  luck." 

"Well,"  Bigelow  replied,  "there  's  no  de- 
nyin'  Robb  has  personal — " 


247 
T\ 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"Oh,  Dad!"  the  boy  stopped  him,  redden 
ing  nervously. 

Bigelow  patted  him  on  the  back.  "All 
right,  Robb.  All  right."  He  winked  apolo 
getically  at  Smiffen.  "He  's  modest. 
Can't  stand  to  hear  himself  praised." 

Smiffen  signalled  that  he  understood. 
He  did  not  laugh,  even  inwardly,  at  this  dot 
ing  fondness.  "Well,  there  's  a  good  time 
coming,"  he  assured  them.  "I  '11  drop  off 
the  train  some  time  to  see  you  all  enjoying 
it.  I  've  got  to  go  now,  but  I  '11  be  back 
some  day.  Goodbye." 

He  shook  hands  with  them  all  round 
again — thanked  by  Hallie  with  a  shy  smile 
and  by  Letitia  with  a  little  fluttered  pres 
sure  of  the  fingers.  Bigelow  took  him  to 
the  outer  door,  and  they  stood  a  moment  on 
the  porch,  while  the  old  stage  driver  renewed 
his  hospitable  invitation  to  come  and  spend 
a  day  with  them  any  time  that  he  could. 
248 


— tiptoed  silently  out  of  the  room 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


"I  will,"  Smiffen  kept  saying.  "I  will— 
with  pleasure"  retreating  down  the  steps 
sideways,  reluctant  to  go.  He  was  on  the 
last  step  when  he  saw  a  man  with  a  walking- 
stick  shouldering  up  the  path  from  the  gate. 

"Hello !"  Bigelow  said  under  his  voice. 

Smiffen  stepped  aside  into  the  shadow, 
lingering  awkwardly,  intending  to  say  his 
final  farewell  as  soon  as  Bigelow  had  done 
with  this  newcomer. 

Judge  Andrews  stalked  into  the  light  of 
the  open  door.  He  said,  in  the  tone  of  a 
challenge :  "Mr.  Bigelow,  is  my  daughter — " 

Bigelow  put  out  his  hand.  "She  is,  Judge. 
She  is.  Come  in."  And  when  the  Judge 
made  no  motion  either  to  accept  the  invita 
tion  or  the  proffered  hand,  Bigelow  went 
on:  "There  's  nobody  in  this  house  's  got 
anything  ag'in'  you,  Judge.  We  've  all 
made  mistakes.  Ferget— fergive  an'  fer- 
get.  Come  in.  Come  in." 
251 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


The  Judge  mounted  to  the  porch,  half 
ashamed  and  still  half  resentful.  "We  've 
been  expectin'  you,"  Bigelow  said.  "You  've 
got  to  be  frien's  now,  fer  the  sake  o'  the 
young  ones.  Shake !" 

The  Judge  took  off  his  hat  to  enter,  and 
held  out  his  hand;  and  for  a  moment  the 
light  showed  his  tight  lips  trembling  in  the 
grim  weakness  of  faltering  pride.  Then 
he  turned  and  went  in — and  Bigelow  fol 
lowed — and  the  door  closed. 

The  door  closed;  and  Smiffen  stood,  like 
one  who  has  finished  a  story  and  shut  up 
the  book,  staring  blindly  at  the  pictures  in 
his  memory  and  disappointed  because  he 
had  come  so  soon  to  the  end.  The  thin, 
far  whistle  of  a  locomotive  recalled  him  to 
himself.  He  started  hastily  and  stumbled 
through  the  snow  to  the  gate;  but  there 
he  paused  and  looked  back  at  the  lighted 
window ;  and  when  he  went  on  again,  more 
slowly,  it  was  with  the  tender-eyed  smile  of 


A  GRAND  ARMY  MAN 


a  man  who  had  met  simple  virtue  in  dis 
tress,  and  watched  it  bear  with  sorrow  un- 
embittered,  and  seen  it  come  to  happiness 
at  last. 


THE  END 


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BookSlip-50/n-9,'70(X9877s8)458 — A-31/5,6 


N?  808177 

O'Higgins,  H.J. 
A  Grand  army  man. 


PS3529 

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G5 


LIBRARY 

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